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June. 1977, issue of FANTASTIC magazine and was later rewritten and

incoiporaled into THE INCREDIBLE UMBRELLA (Doubleday, 1979). This

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by Isaac Asimov. Reprinted by permission of the author.

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and Jacquelin Lewi Bynagta. Reprinted by permission of Sraadt & Brandl

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SIGNET TXADGMAKK BBG. U.S MT OFf AND FOREIGN COlWniIES

REGISTCRED TRADEMARK—MARCA llBOtSTKADA

HECHO EN CHICAGO, U.S-A

SIGNET, SIGNET CLASSIC. MENTOR J)NYX. PLUME, MERIDIAN AND NAL BOOKS

are published by New American Library.

1633 Broadway, New York, New York 10019

Fust Printing. November, 1986

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PRINTED IN THE WIVED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION: "WISHING WILL MAKE IT SO"

by Isaac Asimov

THE MONKEY'S PAW

by W. W. Jacobs

BEHIND THE NEWS

by Jack Finney

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA

by Marvin Kaye

TWEEN

by J. F. Bone

THE BOY WHO BROUGHT LOVE

by Edward D. Hoch

THE VACATION

by Ray Bradbury

THE ANYTHING BOX

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fry Zenna Henderson

A BORN CHARMER

by Edward P. Hughes

WHAT IP-

fry Isaac Asimov

MILLENNIUM

by Fredric Brown

DREAMS ARE SACRED

by Peter Philtips

THE SAME TO YOU DOUBLED

by Robert Sheckley

GIFTS. . .

by Gordon R. Dickson

I WISH I MAY. 1 WISH I MIGHT

by Bill Pronzini

THREE DAY MAGIC

by Charlotte Armstrong

THE BOTTLE IMP

by Robert Louis Stevenson

206

216

230

234

321

INTRODUCTION:

WISHING WILL MAKE IT SO

by Isaac Asimov

When I was much younger than 1 am now, I heard the

philosophical comment: "It takes a million dollars to make a

millionaire, but a pauper can be poor without a penny."

When I was a tittle older I listened to Sid Caesar playing

me rote of a Teutonic mountaineer. Carl Reiner said to him,

"Tell me. Professor, how long does it take a person to

negotiate the distance between the top and bottom of a

mountain?"

Said Sid, "Two minutes."

Carl said. with considerable astonishment, "It takes only

two minutes to climb a mountain?"

To which Sid said, with disgust. "Not climb. To negotiate

me distance from the top down to the bottom—two minutes.

Climbing is a different thing altogether.''

I've thought about such things, and it became clear to me

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mat both the examples I have given are representative of a

general stale of affairs that can best be expressed as follows:

"Lousy things are no trouble."

For instance, it's no trouble to go hungry. You don't need

money, and you don't have to make an effort. You just sit

there. Getting yourself outside a square meal can be very

troublesome, however.

Again, suppose that someone brings you all the food you

can eat. In that case, it's getting fat that requires no effort (if

you don't count the tiny effort it takes to lift the food to your

mouth, chew, and swallow). To avoid getting fat, however,

means eating less than you probably want to and engaging in

vigorous exercise besides.

Isaac Asuaov

This is not something that has escaped the notice of hu-

manity generally. I'm absolutely certain that even the mean-

est intelligence has noticed how readily one can be poor,

hungry, thirsty, cold in the winter, hot in the summer, while

finding oneself with nothing to wear, nothing to read, and

nothing pleasant to do.

Not only does one have to take trouble and make an effort

in order to avoid all these lousy things for which there is no

charge, but there is no limit on the quantity of trouble and

effort you may have to make. Most people can work hard all

their lives and stint no effort doing so, and yet find them-

selves far short of the millionaire mark when they're through.

You may want to marry a rich man's gorgeous daughter

(or, if you are a woman, his handsome son), and for that

purpose you may bring into play every bit of charm you

have—and get nowhere. This may start you brooding over the

fact that you can probably, without any effort at all, succeed

in marrying any number of very poor. very ugly women (or

men).

Well, then. what are you going to do? You crave pleasant

things which take more of an effort than you can possibly

pump up in a lifetime of pumping, and you want to avoid

unpleasant things that arc being forced upon you against your

will and mat then stick to you despite your shouts of dismay.

It is easy to decide that there is something wrong with this.

In a properly run Universe, surely you deserve to get some-

thing simply because you want it. Even though this doesn't

seem to happen, there must surely be some trick to bring it

about. Perhaps there is some formula or spell that will give

you anything you want; you need only wish for it. Or else ^

perhaps mere is some supernatural being willing to gratify •^

you under certain conditions. Perhaps there is some wishing "''_

object that already exists, manufactured who knows how, that ^

you need only find in order to gratify your every wish. ^

Folklore of every kind includes tales of magic wishes, and H.

the most successful of all such stories is to be found in The ^

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Thousand and One Nights (more commonly known as The (

Arabian Nights). What child isn't fascinated by the tale of

Aladdin and his lamp and doesn't fantisize having such a lamp

INTRODUCTION 11

for himself? I experienced both the fascination and the fan-

tasy in copious quantities when I was young.

(Incidentally, we modems still believe in the power of

wishing. We call it "praying," of course, and, all too fre-

quently, praying is simply a way of substituting God for the

Slave of the Lamp and making him run our errands for us.)

Of course, some such tales caution against overweening

greed. Midas, having wished that everything he touched would

turn to gold, found he had gone too far and had left himself

no way of eating or drinking, scr he had to beg to get the wish

canceled.

In other stories, the wishes are limited in number, most

often to three, and then, invariably, there is a problem in

deciding what the wishes ought to be. Almost as invariably,

me choices prove unfortunate.

This instinctive suspicion that the notion that wishing will

make it so is nonsense was given its final support by the taws

of thermodynamics. The first law says that the amount of

energy is limited and the second says (in scientific terms)

exactly what 1 said earlier—that lousy things are no trouble,

but that to accomplish anything desirable takes an effort.

What's more, me laws of thermodynamics hold for every-

thing in the Universe, including Slaves of the Lamp.

And yet... and yet...

Even if we are grown-up, hardheaded, and scientific, and

have put childish things behind us. there is still this hanker-

ing. Even though we know that wishing will not make it so,

we can't help but wish that wishing will make it so.

Here, then, are sixteen stones in which wishes, in one

way or another, are involved. And just to make sure that you

will be hooked by them, the first story, "The Monkey's

Paw," is, to my way of thinking, the best such story ever

written, and the grisliest. How I envy you, if you've never

come across it and will now read it for the first time.

So suspend your disbelief for a while and enjoy.

THE MONKEY'S PAW

by W. W. Jacobs

Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour

of Laburnum Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned

brightly- Father and son were at chess; the former, who

possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes,

putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it

even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knit-

ting placidly by the fire.

"Hark at the wind," said Mr. White, who, having seen a

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fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of

preventing his son from seeing it.

"I'm listening," said the latter, grimly surveying the board

as he stretched out his hand. "Check."

"I should hardly think that he'd come to-night," said his

father, with his hand poised over the board.

"Mate," replied the son.

"That's the worst of living so far out." bawled Mr. White,

with sudden and untooked-for violence; "of all the beastly,

slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst.

Path's a bog, and the road's a torrent. I don't know what

people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses ^

in the road are let. they think it doesn't matter."

"Never mind, dear," said his wife soothingly; "perhaps

you'll win the next one."

Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a

knowing glance between mother and son. The words died

THE MONKEY'S PAW 13

away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin gray

beard.

"There he is," said Herbert White, as the gate banged to

loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.

The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the

door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new

arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said,

"Tut tut!" and coughed gently as her husband entered the

room, followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eye and

rubicund of visage.

"Sergeant-Major Moms,*' he said, introducing him.

The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered

seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out

whisky and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the

fire.

At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to

talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this

visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in

the chair, and spoke of wild scenes and doughty deeds; of

wars and plagues, and strange peoples.

"Twenty-one years of it," said Mr. White, nodding at his

wife and son. "When he went away he was a slip of a youth

in the warehouse. Now look at him."

"He don't look to have taken much harm," said Mrs.

White politely.

"I'd like to go to India myself," said the old man, "just to

look around a bit, you know."

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"Better where you are," said the sergeant-major, shaking

his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly,

shook it again.

"1 should like to see those old temples and fakirs and

jugglers," said the old man. "What was that you started

telling me the other day about a monkey's paw or something,

Morris?"

"Nothing," said the soldier hastily. "Leastways nothing

worth hearing."

"Monkey's paw?" said Mrs. White curiously-

"Wetl, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, per-

haps," said the sergeant-major off-handedly.

His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absent-

W. W. Jacobs

mmdodly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down

again. His host filled it for him.

"To look at," said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his

pocket, "it's just an ordinary little paw, dned to a mummy."

He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs.

White drew back with a gnmace, but her son, taking it,

examined it curiously.

"And what is there special about it?" inquired Mr. White

as he took it from his son, and having examined it, placed it

upon the table.

"It had a spell put on it by an old fakir," said the sergeant-

major, "a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled

people's lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to

their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men

could each have three wishes from it."

His manner was so impressive that his hearers were con-

scious that their light laughter jarred somewhat.

"Well, why don't you have three, sir?" said Herbert White

cleverly.

The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is

wont to regard presumptuous youth. "I have," he said qui-

etly, and his blotchy face whitened.

"And did you really have the three wishes granted?" asked

Mrs. White.

"1 did," said me sergeant-major, and his glass tapped

against his strong teeth.

"And has anybody else wished?" persisted the old lady.

"The first man had his three wishes. Yes," was the reply;

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"I don't know what the first two were, but the third was for

death. That's how I got the paw."

His tones were so grave that a hush felt upon me group.

"If you've had your three wishes, it's no good to you now

then, Morris," said the old man at last. "What do you keep it

for?"

The soldier shook his head. "Fancy, I suppose." he said

slowly. "1 did have some idea of selling it, but 1 don't think I

will. It has caused enough mischief already. Besides, people

won't buy. They think it's a fairy tale, some of them; and

those who do think anything of it want to try it first and pay

m6 afterward."

THE MONKEY'S PAW 15

^ "If you could have another three wishes." said the old

man, eyeing him keenly, "would you have them?"

"I don't know," said me other. "I don't know."

^ He look the paw. and dangling it between his forefinger

^ and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a

F slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.

"Better let it bum," said the soldier solemnly.

"If you don't want it, Morris," said the other, "give it to

me."

"I won't," said his friend doggedly. "I threw it on the

^ fire. If you keep it, don't blame me for what happens- Pitch it

^ on the fire again tike a sensible man."

?? The other shook his head and examined his new possession

closely. "How do you do it?" he inquired.

"Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud," said the

sergeant-major, "but I warn you of the consequences."

^ "Sounds tike the Arabian Nights," said Mrs. White, as

f she rose and began to set the supper. "Don't you think you

"^. might wish for four pairs of hands for me?"

;' Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket, and men

all three burst into laughter as the sergeant-major, with a took

of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm.

? "If you must wish,*' he said gruffly, "wish for something

sensible."

Mr. White dropped it back in his pocket, and placing

chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the business of

supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterward the

', three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second install-

q ment of the soldier's adventures in India.

-s "If die tale about me monkey's paw is not more truthful

I, than those he has been telling us," said Herbert, as the door

^ closed behind their guest, just in time to catch the last train,

\ "we shan't make much out of it."

^ "Did you give him anything for it, father?" inquired Mrs.

'J| White, regarding her husband closely.

f "A trifle," said he, colouring slightly. "He didn't want it.

|f but I made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it

^ away."

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"Likely," said Herbert, with pretended horror. "Why,

we're going to be rich, and famous, and happy. Wish to be

W. W. Jacobs

an emperor, father, to begin with; then you can't be ten-

peeked."

He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs.

White armed with an antimacassar.

Mr- White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it

dubiously. "I don't know what to wish for, and that's a

fact," he said slowly. "It seems to me I've got all I want."

"If you only cleared the house, you'd be quite happy,

wouldn't you!" said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder.

"Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then; that'll just do it."

His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held

up the talisman, as his son, with a solemn face, somewhat

marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and

struck a few impressive chords-

"I wish for two hundred pounds," said the old man

distinctly.

A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted

by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran

toward him.

"It moved." be cried, with a glance of disgust at the

object as it lay on the floor. "As I wished, it twisted in my

hand like a snake."

"Well, I don't see the money," said his son, as he picked

it up and placed it on the table, "and I bet I never shall,"

"It must have been your fancy, father," said his wife,

regarding him anxiously.

He shook his head. "Never mind, though; there's no harm

done, but it gave me a shock all the same."

They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished

their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the

old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging

upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon al!

three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the

night.

"I expect you'll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the

middle of your bed," said Herbert, as he bade them good

night, "and something horrible squatting up on top of the

wardrobe watching you pocket your ill-gotten gains."

He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and

seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian

THE MONKEY'S PAW 17

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that he gazed at it with amazement, ft got so vivid that, with

a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a glass contain-

ing a tittle/ water to throw over it. His hand grasped the

monkey's paw, and with a little shiver he wiped his hand on

his coat and went up to bed.

In the brightness of the wintery sun next morning as it

streamed over the breakfast table he laughed at his fears.

There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room

which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty,

shrivelled little paw was pitched on the side-board with a

carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues.

"I suppose all old soldiers are the same," said Mrs. White.

"The idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could

wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how

could two hundred pounds hurl you. father?"

"Might drop on his head from the sky," said the frivolous

Herbert.

"Morris said the things happened so naturally," said his

father, "that you might if you so wished attribute it to

coincidence.''

"Well, don't break into the money before I come back,"

said Herbert as he rose from the table. "I'm afraid it'll turn

you into a mean, avaricious man, and we will have to disown

you."

His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched

him down the road; and returning to the breakfast table, was

very happy at the expense of her husband's credulity. All of

which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at the

postman's knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat

shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits when she

found that the post brought a tailor's bill.

"Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I

expect, when he comes home," she said, as they sat at dinner.

"I dare say," said Mr. White, pouring himself out some

beer; "but for all that, the thing moved in my hand; that I'll

swear to."

IV. W. Jacobs

"You thought it did," said the old lady soothingly.

"I say it did," replied the other. "There was no thought

about it; I had jusl— What's the matter?"

His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious

movements of a man outside, who, peering in an undecided

fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his

mind to enter. In mental connection with the two hundred

pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed, and

wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at

the gate, and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood

with his hand upon it, and then with a sudden resolution flung

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it open and walked ttp the path. Mrs. White at the same

moment placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly unfasten-

ing die strings on her apron, put that useful article of apparel

beneath the cushion of her chair.

She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the

room. He gazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied

fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the

room, and her husband's coat, a garment he usually reserved

for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would

permit, for him to broach his business, but he was at first

strangely silent.

'*!—was asked to call," he said at last, and stooped and

picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. "I come from

'Maw and Meggins.' "

The old lady started. "Is anything the matter?" she asked

breathlessly. "Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it?

What is it?"

Her husband interposed. "There, there, mother," he said

hastily. "Sit down, and don't jump to conclusions. You've

not brought bad news, I'm sure, sir," and he eyed the other

wistfully.

"I'm sorry—" began the visitor.

"Is he hurt?" demanded the mother wildly.

The visitor bowed in assent. "Badly hurt," he said quietly,

"but he is not in any pain."

"Oh, thank God'" said the old woman, clasping her hands.

"Thank God for that! Thank—"

She broke off suddenly as me sinister meaning of the

assurance dawned upon her, and she saw the awful confinna-

THE MONKEY'S PAW 19

lion of her fears in die other's averted face. She caught her

breath, and turning to her slower-witied husband, laid her

trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence.

"He was caught in the machinery," said the visitor at

length in a low vorce.

"Caught in the machinery," repeated Mr. While, in a

dazed fashion, "yes."

He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his

wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont

to do in their old courting days nearly forty years before.

"He was the only one left to us," he said. turning gently

to the visitor. "It is hard."

The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window.

"The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy

with you in your great loss." he said, without looking round.

"I beg that you will understand I am only their servant and

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merely obeying orders."

There was no reply; me old woman's face was white, her

eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband's face

was a look such as his friend the sergeant might have carried

into his first action.

"I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsi-

bility," continued me other. "They admit no liability at all,

but in consideration of your son's services, they wish to

present you with a certain sum as compensation."

Mr. White dropped his wife's hand, and rising to his feet,

gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped

the words. "How much?"

"Two hundred pounds," was the answer.

Unconscious of his wife's shriek, the old man smiled

faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a

senseless heap to the floor.

Ill

In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old

people buried their dead, and came back to the house steeped

in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first

they could hardly realise it, and remained in a state of expec-

W. W. Jacobs

tation as though of something else to happen—something else

which was to lighten this load, loo heavy for old hearts to

bear.

But the days passed, and expectation gave place to

resignation—the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes

miscalled apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word.

for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were

long to weariness.

It was about a week after, that the old man, waking

suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found

himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of

subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself

in bed and listened.

"Come back," he said tenderly. "You will be cold."

"It is colder for my son," said the old woman, and wept

afresh.

The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was

warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and

then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him

with a start.

"The paw'" she cried wildly. "The monkey's paw!"

He started up in alarm. "Where? Where is it? What's the

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matter?"

She came stumbling across the room toward him. "I want

it," she said quietly. "You've not destroyed it?"

"It's in the parlour, on the bracket," he replied, marvel-

ling. "Why?"

She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed

his cheek.

"I only just thought of it," she said hysterically. "Why

didn't 1 think of it before? Why didn't you think of it?"

"Think of what?" he questioned.

"The other two wishes," she replied rapidly. "We've only

had one."

"Was not that enough?" he demanded fiercely.

"No," she cried triumphantly; "we'll have one more. Go

down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again."

The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his

quaking limbs. "Good God, you are mad!" he cried, aghast.

THE MONKEY'S PAW 21

"Get it," she panted; "get it quickly, and wish—Oh, my

boy, my boy!"

Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. "Get back

to bed," he said unsteadily. "You don't know what you are

saying."

"We had the first wish granted," said the old woman

feverishly; "why not the second?"

"A coincidence," stammered the old man,

"Go and get it and wish," cried his wife, quivering with

excitement.

The old man turned and regarded her. and his voice

shook."He has been dead ten days, and besides he—I would

not tell you else, but—I could only recognize him by his

doming. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how

now?"

"Bring him back," cried the old woman, and dragged him

toward the door. "Do you think I fear the child I have

nursed?"

He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the

parlour, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its

place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring

his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the

room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found

that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with

sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the

wall until he found himself in the small passage with the

unwholesome thing in his hand.

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Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the

room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to

have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.

"Wish!" she cried, in a strong voice.

"It is foolish and wicked," he faltered.

"Wish!" repeated his wife,

He raised his hand. "I wish my son alive again."

The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully.

Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with

burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind.

He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occa-

sionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the

window. The candle-end, which had bumed below the rim of

IV, W. /oroto

the china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on die

ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it

expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of relief at

the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a

minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and

apathetically beside him.

Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the

clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily

through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after

lying for some time screwing up his courage, he took the box

of matches, and striking one, went downstairs for a candle.

At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused

to strike another; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet

and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front

door.

The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage.

He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock

was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his

room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded

through me house.

"What's that?" cried the old woman, starting up.

"A rat," said the old man in shaking tones—"a rat. It

passed me on the stairs."

His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded

through the house.

"It's Herbert!" she screamed. "It's Herbert!"

She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and

catching her by the arm, held her tightly.

"What are you going to do?*' he whispered hoarsely.

"It's my boy; it's Herbert!" she cried, struggling mechani-

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cally. "I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding

me for? Let go. 1 must open the door."

"For God's sake don't let it in,'* cried the old man,

trembling.

"You're afraid of your own son," she cried, struggling.

"Let me go. I'm coming, Herbert; I'm coming."

There was another knock, and another. The old woman

with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her

husband followed to me landing, and called after her appeal-

ingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle

THE MONKEY'S PAW 23

back and the bottom boll drawn slowly and stiffly from the

socket. Then the old woman's voice strained and panting.

"The bolt," she cried loudly. "Come down. I can't reach

it."

But her husband was on his hands and knees groping

wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could only find

it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade of

knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the

scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage

against the door. He heard me creaking of the bolt as it came

slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey's

paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish.

The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it

were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back, and

the door opened. A cold wind rushed up me staircase, and a

long loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife

gave him courage to run down to her side, and then to the

gale beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a

quiet and deserted road.

BEHIND THE NEWS

by Jack Finney

No one knew how the false and slanderous item on Police

Chief Quayle got into the Clarion. The editor accepted all

blame- It was Friday, press day, in the final lull before the

old flatbed press began clanking out the weekly twelve hun-

dred copies, and everything in the one-room frame building

seemed normal. Grinning insanely, young Johnny Deutsch,

owner and editor, sat before a typewriter at a rolltop desk

near his secretary—all three of which had been his father's

before him. He sat as he did each week, his long, loose-

jointed body hunched over the old machine, his big hands

flying over the keys; then he flung himself back in his chair

and read aloud what he had just written. " 'Police Chief

Slain by Wolf Pack!' " he cried.

"An immature form of wish fulfillment," his secretary,

Miss Gerraghty, murmured acidly—as she did each week.

Ignoring this, Johnny pounded at his typewriter again, the

carriage jouncing. Then he threw himself back once more, a

lock of jet-black hair dropping onto his forehead, his lean,

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rough-hewn face happy, his brown eyes dancing. " "This

morning,' " he read, " 'Police Chief Wendall E. Quayte was

set upon and slain by a mysterious pack of wolves that

suddenly appeared on Culver Street. Before the eyes of horri-

fied shoppers, the maddened animals lore Quayle to tattered

shreds within seconds.' "

The Clarion's printer, Nate Rubin, an ink-smudged youth

in blue denim apron, stood at his worktable, setting the

back-page supermarket ad and, as he did each week, mourn-

fully shaking his head at the prices. "Johnny"—he glanced

BEHIND THE NEWS 25

up—"Quayle's a slob, but harmless. What you got against

him?"

"Nothing personal." Johnny grinned. "But I'm a cop

hater," he shouted, "as all true Americans instinctively are.

A foe from birth of officialdom, bureaucracy and the heel of

tyranny!" Nate considered this, then nodded in agreement

and understanding. Johnny's typewriter clattered again for a

time, then stopped. " 'Eyewitnesses,' " he read. " 'state

that the surrounding area was a shambles, while dismembered

limbs were found as far south as Yancy Creek. The body was

identifiable only from indecent tattoos and the reek of cheap

whisky, which characterized our undistinguished late sleuth,' "

This, finally, as also happened each week, was too much

for Miss Gerraghty, and peering over her glasses like a

benevolent grandmother, she said witheringly, "A mature

mind could never, week after week, compose these childlike

fantasies to the uproarious amusement of no one but himself.

'Mayor Schimmerhom Assassinated!' " she quoted contemp-

tuously from a previous effort of Johnny's. " 'City Council

Wiped Out by Falling Meteor' " An old memory awakened,

she frowned, then shook her head disdainfully. "Meteors."

She sniffed. "You're worse than your father."

"Whai'd he do?" Johnny looked up.

"Lots of things, all foolish. Found an old lump of lead in a

field, for one thing, and claimed it was a meteor. Threw it in

the lead box on the Linotype machine to melt. Then he ran a

story saying it was the first time in history a paper had been

printed with type cast from a meteor." In a tone suggesting

that both stories were equally absurd, she added, "Same

issue that carried your birth announcement," and nodded at

the panel-weight on Johnny's desk.

Johnny glanced at the paperweight, then picked it up,

hefting it absently. It was a rectangle of lead type, the letters

worn almost smooth; he hadn't read it for years. But now his

eyes scanned the blurred lines that had once announced to

four hundred uncaring subscribers that he had been born.

When he reached the last sentence, "It is predicted he will

make his mark on the world," Johnny's eyes flicked to the

dateline, "October 28, 1933." All elation and well-being

drained out of him then. He was twenty-three years old, the

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Jack Finney

worn type reminded him. and there wasn't the least indication

mat he would ever make a mark or even a scratch on the

wortd—and for the first time he was impressed with Miss

Gerraghty's weekly tirade.

Recalling his idea, at University Journalism School a few

years before, of what life as a newspaperman would be, he

smiled bitterly, contrasting that picture with the life he now

led. Owner by inheritance of a small-town weekly, its col-

umns filled with stale and newsless news as boring to himself

as to his subscribers, he reflected that Miss Gerraghty's con-

tempt was deserved. For he simply went on, week after

week, doing nothing to relieve his frustration but compose

childish parodies of nonexistent news. He thought of a class-

mate, now a copywriter for a large advertising agency, earn-

ing an enormous salary. Then, with even greater longing, he

thought of two other classmates, both of whom were actually

married, he reflected bitterly. Glancing at the half-full sheet

of copy paper in his typewriter, he felt with sudden force that

he was just what Miss Gerraghty said he was, immature and

childlike; and he looked down at the worn type in his hand

with distaste. The very fact that he had kept it, he suddenly

realized, could undoubtedly be explained by Miss Gerraghty

in unpleasantly Freudian terms.

On impulse, a new will toward maturity flaming within

him, Johnny stood up, walked to the Linotype machine, lifted

the cover of the lead box, and dropped his paperweight into

the molten metal. "Miss Gerraghty," be said firmly, his

voice several tones deeper, "what would a mature mind

compose?"

She glanced up, surprised. "If anything," she said, "some-

thing at least distantly linked to the remotely possible." Then

she turned back to her proof sheets.

Back at his desk after several minutes of frowning thought,

his face set, he believed, in new lines of maturity, Johnny

typed "Police Chief Loses Pants." Then he went on, typing

slowly, to compose a brief fictitious account of an attack on

Police Chief Quayle by a large Dalmatian who. johnny wrote,

had torn out the seat of Quayle's pants. But he felt no urge to

read this aloud. As he recalled later, Johnny yanked the sheet

of paper from his typewriter, tossed it onto his desk, and then

BEHIND THE NEWS 27

left, feeling depressed, for City Hall. informing his staff, who

knew better, thai he was going to hunt up some last-minute

news.

The item appeared on page one, headline and all, just as

Johnny had typed it- How it had gotten in with the remaining

unset front-page items no one knew. But it had, and Nate—

with his astounding ability to set words and sentences, editing

their spelling and punctuation, yet allowing no glimmer of

their meaning to touch his mind—had turned it into type

along with the others.

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In any case, it was Johnny's responsibility to check the

issue before the final press run, and he had not done so.

Deprived by Miss Gerraghty of even the pretense that the

Clarion might sometime carry a piece of news worth reading,

he had lingered too long talking to the town clerk. This was

Miss Miriam Zeebley, a blonde, lithe young woman who

resembled Grace Kelly from the shoulders up, though better-

looking; Anita Ekberg from waist to shoulders, though less

flat-chested; and for the rest of her five feel six inches, as

Marityn Monroe as Miss Monroe undoubtedly wished she

looked.

Seated at her desk, in a thin summer dress—polite, cordial

enough, but coolly official—Miss Zeebley obviously didn't

actually know or care that Johnny Deutsch was alive, and he

didn't blame her. There were times when Johnny, staring into

his mirror, could convince himself for as long as two or three

seconds that he had a sort of offbeat. Lincotnesque good

looks. But now. he felt his face flush as the certainty swept

over him that he was actually an awkward, crag-faced lout.

Then, grateful for even the crumbs of her attention, but

knowing that for her anything less than a young Ronald

Colman was absurd, he left.

Back at his desk, the Clarion already delivered into the

official hands of the post office, Johnny reached the lowest

ebb of his life. Staring numbly at the page-one libel on Police

Chief Quayle, knowing that any jury would regard it as tend-

ing to "embarrass, humiliate and defame," he knew too that

he was a failure and a misfit, inept in life, libel and love; and

he considered simply walking to the edge of town, jumping a

freight, and beginning life anew in the West-

Jack Fwney

The front door opened, and a small boy, wearing cowboy

boots, the dress jacket of a full colonel in the Space Patrol,

and a fluorescent green stocking cap, stepped into the office.

He said, "Hey Johnny, you got some old type 1 can have for

my newspaper?"

"Ask Nate." Johnny gestured wearily at the shabby sink at

which Nate was scrubbing his forearms.

"Okay." The boy suddenly grinned. "Gee, it was funny, I

sure laughed," he said.

"What was funny?"

"Chief Quayle. Gettin' the seat of his pants tore off. Gee,

it was funny; I sure laughed."

"Oh." Johnny nodded. "You've read the story?"

The boy shook his head. "No. ! saw it."

"Saw what?" Johnny said irritably.

"Saw the dog," the boy explained patiently, "bite off his

pants. Gee, it was funny." He laughed. "I sure laughed."

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Johnny pushed himself upright in his chair. '' You saw mis

happen?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"On Culver Street."

"You actually saw the dog tear the seat out of Quayte's

pants?"

"Yep." the boy grinned. "Gee, it was—"

"When?"

"I dunno." He shrugged. "Few minutes ago. He ran all

the way back to the station house. It was sure funny. Every-

body laughed like anyth—''

Grabbing the boy by both shoulders, his voice grown low

and tense, Johnny said slowly, "What kind of dog was it?"

"I dunno," the boy answered without interest. "One of

them big white dogs with black spots all over." He turned

toward the sink at the back of the room. "Hey, Nate!" he

called. "Johnny says for you to gimme some type."

For a full quarter minute Miss Gerraghty just stared at

Johnny. Then she blinked her eyes and announced firmly.

"Coincidence. An astonishing, yet mathematically predicta-

ble coinci—''

Johnny slowly shook his head. "No," he said numbly, his

BEHIND THE NEWS 29

eyes astonished. "It was no coincidence, as any but the

scientific mind would know." He turned slowly toward Miss

Gerraghty. and in his eyes a glow of triumph was kindling.

"Miss Gerraghty," he said slowly, "I don't know how il

happened, but what I wrote and printed in the Clarion came

true. Immediately, and in every detail." Suddenly he grinned,

snatching up a fresh sheet of paper, rolled it into his type-

writer, and said, "And nothing in the world is going to stop

me from trying it again!"

His eyes glittering, staring through the paper at a suddenly

glorious and incredible future, Johnny typed "Engagement

Announced!" The keys beat out a furious splatter of sound.

"Miss Miriam Zeebley to Wed Editor Deutsch!" The type

bars jammed, and Johnny frantically pried them apart, then

continued. "Town Clerk Zeebley, unexpectedly resigning her

position, announced today—"

One week later, the Clarion printed, addressed, carried to

the post office, and even then, Johnny knew, being delivered,

he sat at his desk waiting. Then. as he had hoped, the phone

rang; and as he had also hoped, it was Miss Zeebley, her

voice lovely as a temple be!l. For a full minute Johnny sat

listening. Once he said, "But Miss Zeebley. it was an acci—"

A few'moments later he began, "Typographical err—*' Dur-

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ing the one time she paused for breath, Johnny managed to

say feebly, "It must have been some kind of—joke. A dis-

gruntled employee." Presently, voice dulled and hopeless, he

said, "Yes, I'll publish a retraction," and hung up.

For a while, tost in despair, Johnny sat with his head in his

hands, staring down at the floor. Then, as some men turn to

drink, others to drugs, women, or gambling, Johnny turned to

his typewriter. "Quayle Stain by Thug," he typed despon-

dently. "Early this morning," he continued, "the decapitated

body of Police Chief Wendall E. Quayle was discovered in an

abandoned trunk. Minutes later, his head, shrunken to a

fraction of its normal six-and-one-eighth-inch size—"

Presently he tossed the finished story onto Miss Gerraghty's

desk- "It came true once," he said sadly, "about Quayle's

pants. If I'd only printed this instead."

"It wouldn't have come true then," Miss Gerraghty said,

glancing at the headline. "Any more than Miriam Zeebley

Jack Finney

marrying you. There are some tilings thai are just too

ridiculous."

Johnny stared at her for several seconds, his eyes narrow-

ing. "Yeah," he said then, interest and excitement beginning

to well up in his voice, "maybe dial's it." He nodded

thoughtfully. "It's got to be possible, at least; maybe that's

the key. You can't go too far, you can't go overboard."

Suddenly he was elated. "You've hit it. Miss Gerraghty!"

He reached for a fresh sheet of copy paper.

As Miss Gerraghty stared at him in icy, unbelieving con-

tempt, Johnny, choosing his words slowly and carefully,

began to type. "Among those attending the Old Nakomis

Country Club Soiree tonight," he wrote, "will be Miss Mir-

iam Zeebley. It will surprise none who know our ever-popular

town clerk to learn that, bearing no malice for an unfortunate

error that appeared in these columns recently, she will attend

escorted by Ye Ed, Johnny Deutsch."

He pulled the sheet of paper from his machine, dated it in

pencil for the following week's issue, scribbled "Social Notes"

at the top, then read it through again. "Possible," he mur-

mured approvingly. "Or at least barely within the borders of

conceivability." His eyes happy again, johnny glanced at

Miss Gerraghty and grinned. "Shoot the works," he said,

and rolled another sheet into his typewriter.

"Psychotic," Miss Gerraghty murmured, nodding soberly.

"Like father, like son."

"How do you spell 'bubonic plague'?" Johnny asked, then

hastily added. "Never mind; I'd better make it mumps."

The following Saturday Johnny picked up the phone. Miss

Gerraghty laid down her proof sheets to listen.

"Miriam," Johnny said presently into the phone, his voice

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brisk and confident, "I want you to attend the Old Nakomis

Country Club Soiree tonight; with me." He leaned back in

his chair, feet up on his typewriter, listening. "You have a

date? Well, break it," he said firmly. A moment later he

smiled and said. "Fine. 1*11 call for you at eight." There was

a pause; then Johnny said, "Quayle, eh? What's the trou-

ble?" Then he nodded. "Thanks; the story'll be in this

issue." He replaced the phone, aimed to Miss Gerraghty, and

waited, humming softly.

BEHIND THE NEWS 31

For a moment there was no sound in the room; Miss

Gerraghty simply stared. Then in a small, frightened voice,

she asked, "Is Quayte sick?" Johnny nodded. "Mumps?"

Miss Gerraghty whispered.

'Yeah," Johnny said, and turned happily to his typewriter

The quality and interest of the Clarion's news picked up

sharply in me weeks that followed. With invariable accuracy,

the Clarion reported that Miss Miriam Zeebley was attending

the Flower and Garden Show. the movies, the Women's Club

annual bazaar, a traveling carnival, and the Spelling-Bee

State Semifinals, all with Johnny Deutsch. In addition, the

Clarion uncannily announced almost simultaneously with the

events themselves that Mayor Schimmerhorn was stung by a

swarm of bees, and-that the City Council, refreshing them-

selves with cheese sandwiches after a meeting, was stricken

to a man with food poisoning- It was predicted by the Clarion

that the Giri Scouts would sell 42 per cent more cookies than

last year in their annual drive, and this came precisely true.

The Clarion reported that the Old Nakomis Country Club had

elected a new vice-president, Johnny Deutsch, and that Police

Chief Wendall E. Quayle, having recovered from the mumps,

had promptly come down with hives. Circulation increased

by leaps and bounds.

For however it happened and whatever the cause, it was

undeniably true that what the Clarion printed as fact or

prediction always came true—so long as Johnny kept his

inventions to the reasonably possible. Once, in his zeal, he

violated this principle, and had to rush an extra edition into

print on the following day carrying a retraction of the Clarion's

lead story mat Mayor Schimmerhorn, a notorious teetotaler.

had been arrested while drunk for peddling indecent post

cards in the alley back of City Hall. But, the retraction added;

His Honor, understanding how such an error could easily

occur, had no intention of suing the Clarion; and the mayor

explained to friends later that day, his voice faintly puzzled,

that this was quite true.

A few days later, Thursday, a hot afternoon in August,

Johnny leaned back in his chair, folded his hands compla-

cently in back of his head, lifted his long lean legs up onto

his typewriter, and looked across the little office at Miss

Jack Finney

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Gerraghty. She was sitting, chin in hand, listening to- a

portable radio on her desk from which a voice was saying,

'*. . . sacred trust to the American people!" A burst of

applause followed this statement, and johnny nodded at the

radio and said. "You know, we have seldom carried national

news. We've been more of a local paper."

Miss Gerraghty glanced up, nodded absently, then returned

her attention to the radio, as the voice resumed solemnly, "In

the immortal words of Thomas Jefferson ..."

"There is no reason," Johnny continued quietly, "why we

shouldn't, though. Once in a while." Miss Gerraghty didn't

bother to answer. "It might be fun," Johnny added, nodding

at the radio, "with me Democratic convention going on, to

score a news beat on the rest of the world."

Miss Gerraghty looked at him, faintly puzzled; then her

jaw dropped, and she hastily switched off the radio. "No!"

She stared at him wide-eyed. Then, voice frightened and

ominous, she said, "No, Johnny, you're going too far. Stick

to local—"

He was shaking his head. "There are several possible

candidates for the Democratic nomination," he said, nodding

at the radio, "and it's time to do something about it."

Dropping his feet to the floor. Johnny sat up and rolled a

fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter. "Think it's all right

if we issue the paper a day early?"

"Nobody will notice the difference," Miss Gerraghty re-

plied faintly, as Johnny poised his ringers over the typewriter.

"We'll get the paper to the post office tonight then," he

said, "to be delivered in the morning mail. "Kefauver, Ste-

venson, or Harriman," he murmured, "I just can't make up

my mind." Then he suddenly typed, "Stevenson Nominated!"

and said, "Think I'll make it on the first ballot."

The next day, the radio blaring with the voice of the

excited announcer above the background pandemonium of

cheering delegates. Miss Gerraghty looked up at Johnny.

"Anybody could have predicted that."

But Johnny wasn't listening. Hands clasped behind his

head, staring dreamily at the ceiling, he was murmuring,

"It's Ike for President, of course, but whom shall I give the

second spot to?"

BEHIND THE NEWS 33

Seven days later, the radio on Miss Gerraghty's desk blared

that Richard Nixon had been given the Republican nomina-

tion for vice-president, in precisely the way Johnny's lead

story in the Clarion had described. Miss Gerraghty wrung her

hands, and moaned. "Johnny," she said pitifully, "why?"

She snatched a copy of the Clarion from her desk, and shook

it violently in his face. "Nixon to Run with Ike!" the head-

line cried. "Why does it work?" Miss Gerraghty begged.

"Why, 1 thought you knew." johnny looked at her, genu-

inely surprised. "I thought you'd guessed; don't you ever

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read science fiction? It's the meteor. Miss Gerraghty."

"The meteor?"

"The one my father found," Johnny said patiently. "It

seems to be lead, but actuallyiit was an unknown metal from

another world. And somehow, when you turn it into type, the

news it prints comes true. Within reason."

"But where did you get—"

"My birth announcement," he said impatiently. "It was

cast from the meteor, as you yourself told me. It was saved

all these years, tilt I melted it with the Linotype lead."

Johnny shrugged, smiling happily. "And since we remelt our

type after each issue, it's always still there, hard at work,

issue after issue of the Clarion.''

Her voice dulled, finally accepting this. Miss Gerraghty

said, "But how? Johnny, how does it wor—"

"Miss Gerraghty," Johnny said sternly, "if you had ever

read science fiction, you'd know that the dullest part is

always the explanation. It bores the reader and clutters up the

story. Especially when the author flunked high-school physics

and simply doesn't know how it works. We'll just skip that,"

he said firmly, "and get on to more important things. We've

got lots to do now."

But in the weeks following the conventions, to Miss

Gerraghty's great relief, Johnny's mind turned from the na-

tional scene. For while it was delightfully true that Miss

Miriam Zeebley and Editor Deutsch continued to do every-

thing mentioned in the Clarions's Social Notes, there was a

limit to what could be mentioned. Johnny Deutsch was healthy,

normal and reasonably full of animal vigor; and while he

enjoyed escorting Miriam to the town's social functions, there

Jack Finney

were times—twenty-four hours a day, in fact—when he longed

for more than he could describe in type. He would have

liked, for example, to kiss Miss Zeebley, long and linger-

ingly. full on the lips.

He considered printing this as a news item and burying it

among the legal notices at the back of the Clarion, but he

couldn't quite work up the nerve to do it. He also considered

simply kissing Miriam on his own some night; but he couldn't

work up the nerve to try this, either. There were times now

when, shaving before a date with Miriam, he managed to

convince himself for a full minute or more that he was

actually a rather rugged, good-looking man. There were even

times when he felt that Miriam agreed. But these times never

coincided with opportunities to kiss her. At those moments he

alway knew, with depressing certainty, that he was a gibber-

ing clod. Once again he was a frustrated man, and it seemed

to Johnny as the summer went on that his activities with

Miriam were forever doomed to those that could be described

in a family newspaper.

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And so it was, one fine fall morning, that when Miss

Gerraghty said, "Did you vote today?" Johnny only looked

at her blankly.

"Vote?" he said.

"Today," Miss Gerraghty said patiently, "is Election Day;

your first opportunity to help elect a President."

He glanced at the wall calendar. Miss Gerraghty was right.

"Thanks," he said, and his face cleared. "Thanks for re-

minding me"—once again his voice was brisk and assured—

"or I might have been too late."

"Too late for what?"

"To make sure," Johnny said. reaching for a sheet of copy

paper, "that the right man is elected."

Slowly Miss Gerraghly rose from her desk, walked around

it, and stood facing Johnny. "No," she said quietly.

"What do you mean?" He looked up.

"I won't let you, Johnny. That's one thing neither you nor

anyone else is going to interfere with."

He sat back in his chair, smiling up at her. "Don't you

want to see me right man elected?"

"Certainly," she said, "but who is he? That's something

BEHIND THE NEWS 35

no less than seventy million Americans are competent to

decide." Her voice rose shrilly. "You hear me. Johnny? You

let this atone!"

For a moment he sat staring up at her, and Miss Gerraghty

realized how much he still resembled the boy he had been

only a few years ago. "Don't be silly. Miss Gerraghty," he

said, and turned to his typewriter. "Not many people would

pass up this chance."

"And that," Miss Gerraghty said—and now she was speak-

ing more to herself than to Johnny—"may be what is wrong

with the world today." She walked back to her desk and for

the rest of the morning sat thinking. She considered, first,

burning down the office, but she knew she would be stopped.

Then she considered rushing out to buttonhole people on the

street and tell them the secret only the staff shared about the

Clarion; but she knew she would not be believed. For a wild

moment she considered murder, but knew immediately that

she could never harm a hair of Johnny Deutsch's head.

At noon, when Johnny and Nate left for lunch. Miss

Gerraghty stayed behind. The moment the door closed she

stood up and walked to the files. For the next hour and a half,

her fingers working frantically, her face soon perspiring and

dust-streaked, she hunted desperately through the files.

"What are you doing?" Johnny asked, as he opened me

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office door on his return from lunch. Miss Gerraghty turned,

her old body moving with a terrible weariness, her face like

granite. From the top of the old wood filing cabinets, she

picked up a stack of newspapers, and nodded at them somberly.

"I have been going through the back files," she answered.

For a moment, her eyes like embers, she stared across the

room at Johnny. "Has it occurred to you," she burst out

bitterly, "that you weren't the first to use that meteor for

type?" She dropped the stack of papers on Johnny's desk;

their edges, he saw, were yellowed and crumbling with age.

"Your father used it first, remember!" Her bony forefinger,

trembling violently, touched a faded column of type. "Read

it! Like you, he wasn't afraid to deal with subjects he knew

nothing about!"

Johnny leaned forward to study the old story; after a mo-

ment he glanced at her. puzzled. "It's nothing," he said.

Jack Finruy

"Just a column of speculation on financial affairs. Harmless

stuff."

"Harmless! 'Stocks will go down,' the old idiot wrote, just

as though he knew what he was talking about! And of course

it came true. Oh, it came true, all right! Look at that date!"

Her shaking finger touched the date line. " 'October 28,

1929,' and the next day the stock market crashed and the

worst depression in mankind's history began."

She snatched the old paper from the stack, revealing me

next. "Presently," she said with acid quietness, "our genius

Aimed to politics, just as his son wants to do. But he jumped

into world politics, with an asinine editorial on Pacific devel-

opments." Her bony forefinger pointed out the date line.

" 'September 17, 1931,' and of course his story came true,

in a way he never realized. Japan invaded Manchuria the very

next day! Two years later"—she revealed the next paper—"he

wrote an empty-headed article on German politics, and Hitler

became Chancellor of the Third Reich! In the very same

year"—she pointed to another yellowing page—"he very

nearly got Roosevelt assassinated, and"—her finger stabbed

at still another story signed by Johnny's father—"read this

and you'll see that he was directly responsible for the Dionne

quintuplets!"

For a full fifteen seconds there was no sound in the little

office but me chattering of Johnny's teeth- Then. barely able

to speak, he whispered pitifully, "What about—World War

Two?"

In a tone almost of kindness. Miss Gen-aghty said, "No.

I've checked the files carefully, and he wasn't responsible.

But he did plenty! Any number of floods, fires, earthquakes

and minor holocausts I haven't even bothered to mention!

And he never realized it, never saw the connection, and I

didn't either, till now. in time, I guess, the meteor metal

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thinned out. New lead was added to the Linotype from time

to time, of course, and by the late 'thirties, as far as I can tell

from the files, mere wasn't enough meteor metal left to do

any harm- Until you melted some of that original type again—

your birth announcement, cast in full-strength meteor metal!

Johnny"—her voice deepened with implacable authority—

"you've got to clean out the lead box on the Linotype

BEHIND THE NEWS 37

machine and throw out every scrap of old lead in the place.

Right now!"

His voice a humble whisper, Johnny said, "Yes. Of course.

Right away- Just as soon as I run one last story—"

"No!"

"—about my elopement!" he said frantically."! finally

figured out what to do about Miriam and the story is all ready

to set up!"

For a full minute Miss Gerraghty considered. Then finally,

reluctantly, she said, "All right; though I'm very fond of

Miriam. And 1 think it's criminal to risk another generation of

Deutschs. This one last story—and that's all!"

"Okay," Johnny said humbly. Then, physically and emo-

tionally exhausted. Miss Gerraghty went home for the day,

while Johnny allowed the presidential election of 1956 to

proceed normally.

But he did write still one more story, which he personally

set up in meteor type. Then he dropped every other scrap of

type metal in the office into the deepest part of Yancy Creek.

This final story, a little square of type locked in the office

safe, has not yet been printed.' It announces the birth of

Johnny's daughter, giving precise details of her weight and

length and stating mat she resembles her mother exactly.

Since obviously the prediction had come true in his own case,

Johnny added, "It is predicted that she will make her mark

on the world." Then he dated the story exactly nine months

later than the elopment announcement.

Whether this final story will come true or not—whether the

meteor metal from an unknown world will continue to have

its mysterious effect—it is impossible to say. But it still

seems to be working okay so far; at least, Miriam Deutsch is

expecting.

THE FLIGHT OF THE

UMBRELLA

by Man/in Kaye

Exegesis

"... a long, heavy pole that ended in a large flounce of some

silky material emblazoned with orange-and-yellow stripes on

which various cabalistic symbols seemed to dance in pastel

figurations. It was clearly an umbrella, but its size was rather

impractical: too large for everyday use, too small for beach-

basking ..."

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When J. Adrian Fillmore (Gad, how he detests that name!)

bought me odd-looking bumbershoot, he had no idea it would

whisk him away from his prosaic daily routine as a professor

of English literature, American drama and Shakespeare at

Parker College in mid-Pennsylvania and plant him smack-dab

in tfie middle of a Gilbert and Sullivan cosmos.

The incredible umbrella was obviously some kind of

dimensional-transfer engine, and it operated by universal laws

he could but dimly discern. But after undergoing several

harrowing adventures as a fugitive from the pirates of Penzance,

me crew of the H. M. S- Pinafore, the ex-daughter-in-law-

elect of the Mikado, and finally the entire British legal estab-

lishment, J. Adnan Fillmore found himself safety ensconced

in the home of the umbrella's manufacturer, John Wellington

Wells, me very sorcerer named in the title of the third Gilbert

and Sullivan operetta.

The first thing the scholar demanded was why the umbrella

took him to G&S-land and then refused to function again.

Said Wells: "1 didn't plan it that way. But apparently

there are physical laws governing it. You've got to finish

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 39

a sequence. You have to follow some basic block of

activity ..."

J. Adrian Fillmore nodded. "My adventures followed the

developing logic of an operetta. 1 had to solve the chief plot

dilemma before the finale could be obtained, and the um-

brella would work again."

During his struggles to get free of his various predica-

ments, Fillmore began to take part in me logic of me G&S

cosmos: he sang, just as the natives did . . . and there lay his

chief danger.

"Subsumption," said the sorcerer. "There is a fine line

between participation and total involvement. You were begin-

ning to accept the axioms and tenets upon which my world is

formulated. A little more singing and you could have found

yourself permanently stuck here."

"But why did you engineer such a danger into your

umbrella?''

"1 didn't. The instrument operates on principles and uni-

versal dictums that I've never been able to completely pin

down. One time I wafted myself into an alien universe by

magic and spied a master mathematician explaining the prin-

ciples of mis very device to an associate. It was beyond my

comprehension. But when I heard what purpose the inventor

had in mind, I stole the umbrella, brought it back to my own

clime, and analyzed the working parts sufficiently to manu-

facture it for discreet, serious people who wish to go to other,

better lands . . .*'

Fillmore realized that he had been thinking about his thesis

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on Gilbert and Sullivan at the moment he first pushed the

button of the umbrella. Normally, Wells pointed out, the

machine would take its possessor to the cosmos desired in his

thoughts.

"But participation in other climes will be vastly different

from this world. It won't always be so obvious as to what

may ensnare you permanently."

The scholar picked up his umbrella, determined to go

someplace where he would not be constantly put upon, a

victim, but the sorcerer warned him that man tends to remain

stable in whatever dimension he inhabits.

"D'you know where you wish to go now?" asked Wells.

Marvin Kaye

**Ycs. I wait to seek out the one man who could unriddle

the mystery of this umbrella."

"Which mystery are you talking about?"

"Why it takes the user to literary, rather than actual dimen-

sions," Fillmore stated.

"Well, as to that, this world is real enough to me," the

sorcerer protested, "and 1 have no idea what you mean when

you refer to it as a gilbert and sullivan place . . . but, pray

explain: What enlightened genius could possibly unravel the

enigma of my marvelous umbrella?"

The sorcerer's curiosity remained unsatisfied. At the very

moment he posed the question, there came a fierce rap at his

front door. Fillmore looked to see who it was—and blanched.

During his misadventures, he had won the affections of

Ruth, the rather bloodthirsty piratical-maid-of-all-work who

spent her best, and second-best, and least-worst years ma-

rauding with the Penzance buccaneers. Ruth mistook Fill-

more's intentions and thought he wanted to marry her.

As soon as he saw her at the sorcerer's door, the professor

pressed the button of the dimensional-transfer machine and

disappeared.

There were two people at the front door: Ruth, and a small,

bald-headed civil servant, dry in manner and parched of

spirit.

"Subpoena for one J. Adrian Fillmore," said the wizened

functionary.

"On what charge?"

"What else?" Ruth snapped. "Breach of promise of

marriage!"

"Oh. dear," the sorcerer mumbled to himself, "another

sequence! I do hope he got away in lime ..." But Fillmore's

thoughts were confused -when he pressed the umbrella catch.

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Vivid memories of Ruth throwing herself upon him at the

conclusion of his trial in Old Bailey crowded his brain, and

muddled the process of selection.

And what was worse, he knew nothing then of the principle

of universal economy. . . .

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 41

Chapter One

AH afternoon, the equinoctial gales whipped London with

elemental violence. The wan October sun, obscured by hueless

clouds, shed pallid light but little warmth. Winds screamed

down avenues and alleys, while at the windowpanes, a driv-

ing rain beat a merciless tattoo. It was as if all the destructive

forces of Nature had foregathered, penned beasts, to howl at

and threaten mankind through the protecting bars of his cage,

civilization.

As evening drew in, the storm waned, though the wind still

moaned and sobbed in the eaves like a child-ghost whimper-

ing in a spectral schoolroom. From the Thames, great curl-

ings of fog billowed forth, obscuring the green aits and

meadows, creeping up alleys and mews, blanketing the city

in an impenetrable maisma. Amber streetlamps glowed feebly

in the mist-shroud like the eyes of corpses. Few foot

travelers ventured out in the mud, and the only sound heard

on some streets was the occasional rhythmic clip-clop and

simultaneous metallic squeal of a passing hansom.

Newman Street was deserted and smothered by the river

vapor. The mud was so thick and the appurtenances of inhab-

itation so difficult to discern that one might well believe a

stegosaurus could wander along its morass-like reaches- But

at precisely ten past nine, a less impressive figure suddenly

appeared on the empty thoroughfare: a smallish, somewhat

stocky man.

His footsteps echoed down the street and he stalked along

for a time before assaying a cross-street. He was inadequately

dressed in a gray woolen suit with ascot tucked in at the

throat. He was hatless and wore no topcoat. Though he

carried an umbrella in one hand, he made no effort to use it

as a shield from the steady drizzle.

Up one alley, down another, past shadowy blocks of homes,

tenements, commercial estabishments, the solitary pedestrian

walked, his collar turned up and his head bowed. He hunched

his shoulders, but the rain soaked into the material he wore

on his back, ran down and squelched soddenly in his shoes,

making the toes of his socks into sopping sponges. Once he

Marvin Kaye

stepped into a puddle deep enough to drown a cat. Shivering.

he extricated his foot and forlornly tried to wnng the excess

moisture from his trouser leg.

Turning into Lombard Street, he spied the lights of a

distant tavern. He huddled into a covered entranceway and

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fished in his pocket for his wallet. Finding it, he counted over

the meager currency therein: roughly $34 in U.S. dollars that

had been generously converted to pounds sterling by his

benefactor, John ^ellinglon Wells. But would it be usable in

this cosmos? And did he, in fact, reach the very place he'd

been meaning to visit?

Fillmore meditated briefly, made a decision, then stepped

off in the direction of the far-off inn.

After a few moments more of slogging though mud and the

rain. he drew near to the place. A sign suspended from an

iron scrolled arm set at right angles to the bricks above the

tavern door proclaimed the name of the establishment:

THE GEORGE AND VULTURE

That disturbed him. But he wiped off his shoes on the

small bracket for that purpose set next to the steps and went

inside, grateful to get out of the wetness.

The taproom was sparsely populated that evening. A trio of

gamesters took turns at the dartboard, and an elderly, kindly-

looking gentleman with a bit of a paunch sat at a corner table

taking supper with a young, dandyish companion. The only

other individual in the room when the drenched itinerant

entered was the bartender.

Fitlmore's bedraggled condition drew quizzical glances from

the dart throwers, but they said nothing. Approaching me bar,

he held out a pound note and ascertained from the bewildered

tapster that it was, indeed, acceptable tender. The newcomer

then ordered a pint of ale,

"Bit of a foul night for a stroll." observed the bartender as

he set the libation on the polished countertop before his

customer.

The stranger nodded, downing a quarter of the brew at one

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 43

gulp. Wiping his mouth, he eyed the bartender quizzically.

then motioned to him.

"I say, would you mind very much if I asked you a

question?"

"Of course not."

"Even if it seems a trifle peculiar?"

The tapster gnnned, placed his hands flat on the countertop

and leaned over to his customer. "If," he said in a low

voice, "you think aught can surprise me after twenty-year of

tavern-tending, ye've much to leam. Ask away."

"Well . . . this is London, isn't it?"

"George Yard, right enough "

"Well and good, but—" Fillmore shrugged."Well, what I

want to know is this; what year is this?"

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"Why, 'ninety-five," the other replied, a bit nonplussed in

spite of his assurances.

"Yes, yes," FiUmore nodded impatiently, "but—do you

mean eighteen ninety-five?"

The bartender swallowed, wet his lips and took a breath

before trusting himself to affirm me century. Then he found a

reason-to busy himself at the opposite end of the tavern.

Fillmore slowly sipped his ale. oblivious to me muted buzz

that rose when the tapster began to talk to the dart players. He

ignored their collective gaze, and busied himself moistening

his interior and wondering how to dry off his exterior.

A tap on his shoulder- The dandyish gentleman stood by

his side.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Snodgrass—'*

(Fillmore's ill-defined fears began to take shape.)

"I beg to be forgiven for invading your privacy, but my

companion and I. you see, could not help but notice your

somewhat uncomfortable condition. My friend is the most

compassionate of men and wishes to make your acquaintance

and perhaps assist you in your putative predicament."

The stranger thanked Snodgrass and followed him back to

the table at the rear of the room, where the elderly, portly

gentleman in cutaway, gaiters and ruffled shirt rose to take his

hand in greeting. With his other hand. he adjusted the rimless

pince-nez upon the broad bridge of his nose and smiled.

"Pleased to meet a fellow scholar," he said, upon perusing

Marvin Kaye

Fillmore's Parkcr College business card. "Eh? What? Bless

me, yes, quite right, you heard correctly, that is my name. I

daresay what little reputation I may have established is not

the least bit tainted with the calumnies of false report. But sit

you down, sir, sit you down and dry off as you may. Won't

you share some of this excellent cold beef? And allow me to

refill your tankard?"

Fillmore thanked him mightily, and set to with a will, not

to mention a hearty appetite. His last meal had been in

prison, awaiting trial at Old Bailey. The meat and ate were so

excellent that he did not permit the trifle of a possible

mislocation of cosmoses to upset him.

After he'd made a clean sweep of a quarter of the beef and

had his glass refilled twice, Fillmore apologized for interrJpt-

ing the dinner colloquy of his host.

"Bless my soul," said the old gentleman, "mis is in no

way an interruption, my good sir. Mr. Snodgrass here, who

is, by the way—"

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"A poet," observed Fillmore.

The old man's eyebrows raised. "Goodness, does his repu-

tation, too. precede him? How did you know his occupation?

I had thought he'd yet to be published!"

The scholar shrugged. "Oh, it's a bit of a fey quality that I

have, I fancy."

"Well. well," the other chuckled, "i am suitably im-

pressed. But, as I say. Mr. Snodgrass here is a capital

poet—"

"My blushes," the other simpered.

"Now, Augustus, modesty ill becomes a man of true

genius. You are a servant of the Muse and there is glory

there' At any rate," said the host, turning to his guest, "my

friend here is somewhat concerned with an affair of the heart,

and I had thought to give him proper advice . . . which.

indeed, I did. As i completed my statement, my attention was

drawn to note your extremely dampish plight. And how, if I

may be so bold, do you manage to be out on such a night as

this without adequate protection? I presume your umbrella

must be damaged; else it should have shielded you more

efficiently from the elemental deluge."

"Well." Fillmore said, somewhat reluctantly, "I do not

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 45

know whether 1 should repay your generosity with a rehearsal

of my predicament. It is so wild a tale you would doubtless

judge me madder than King Lear."

The consequence of this remark was for Fillmore's host

and the poet to positively entreat his adventures. So the

stranger at length embarked upon his lengthy personal his-

tory, ending with his arrival oo Newman Street and his subse-

quent trek to the George and Vulture.

When he had done at last. the others sat back, their mouths

agape.

"Bless my soul," said the elderly gentleman. "That is

certainly the strangest romance I have ever had the privilege

to audit! No mind if it be true or no—it is an history worthy

of the Arabian Nights. What do you say of it, Snodgrass?"

The poet had a dreamy look in his eyes. "I see," he

sighed, "a major epic, a heroic narrative. I shall apply myself

this very night while the fit is still upon me!" Suddenly

leaping up, he excused himself and rushed from the room.

His companion laughed heartily, then apologized for the

poet's precipitate departure. "When Inspiration descends unto

his noble rhymer's brow, it ill beseemeth him to let her wait

admittance until he pay the check." Still chuckling, the

rotund little gentleman rose. "No matter, though, I am better

conditioned than he, I can well afford it and had, indeed,

meant to persuade him so." He graciously waved Fillmore to

follow him.

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In the lobby of the inn, he retrieved his room key, then,

turning to his guest, said, "I keep rooms in this establish-

ment. Pray let me loan you some fitting—ho, ho!—apparel,

for you cannot hope to go about unnoticed in your present

state. No, no! I will hear of no poiite declmmgs. I am very

handsomely off, my good fellow, and it will vastly please me

to make a present of some necessaries with which you may

better shield yourself from the raging elements ..."

An hour later, the two descended the stairs to the lobby.

Fillmore, dry and warm in slightly loose-fitting apparel, car-

ried an oilskin bag beneath his arm. In it was his sopping

clothing. Over his arm, the inoperable umbrella dangled.

Marvin Kdve

As they neared the front door, the scholar whispered to his

host. but that person vigorously shook his head.

"1 repeat, positively not, sir! Your entertaining tale is

ample payment now for these scraps of cloth you've ac-

cepted. I urge you to keep your monies for a more pressing

use. Why. if your story be true, you have but a few odd

pound notes on your person!" His eyes twinkled as he "hu-

mored" his guest.

At the door, Fillmore asked directions to his ultimate desti-

nation. and feared it did not exist. But the old man's answer

allayed his doubts.

"Why, indeed, that street is no great nde away, but see

here, you cannot walk there on this foul night! 1 insist you let

me fee a hansom for your transport."

The scholar protested vigorously, but to no avail. His host.

apologizing for a temporary absence of his manservant on a

family matter, himself stepped into the drizzle and smoke to

hail a cab. It was no simple matter on such a night to find

one, let alone flag one down in the limited visibility the fog

affoixled. But after much assiduous labor and much raising of

the voice, the portly benefactor finally arranged for his friend's

transportation.

As he entered the cab. Fillmore thanked his host repeat-

edly, and the other as often belittled the charity as privilege

and necessary duty. Closing the cab door. the elderly gentle-

man stepped around to the front of the vehicle and told die

driver the proper destination. He paid him in advance.

"The address wanted." said Mr. Pickwick, "is 221 Baker

Street. Just out of Marylebone Road . . ."

Chapter Two

inside the cab, J. Adrian Fillmore tried to collect his thoughts.

It was not easy because of the unaccustomed joggling and

jostling his bones were receiving, but he did what he could to

resolve the nagging doubts, as to his whereabouts.

London it was, and the year was correct, but was it the

time and situation—in short, was it the universe—-of Sherlock

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Holmes?

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 47

"&'

Sft

:£

His thoughts, confused and harried by the sight of Ruth

through the front door pane of Wells' shop, had rushed past

in a chaotic jumble as he pressed the button to open the

umbrella's hood. After that, all was a disordered kaleido-

scope of colors and voids as he flew through uncomputed

curvings of space. His hurried departure allowed no time to

consider personal comfort. When he found himself in the

middle of a dark, rainy street, Filimore had cursed the en-

forced ceienty of his flight. "And, damn it," he muttered in

the dark interior of the lurching cab, "what stupidity made

me abandon my raincoat and galoshes back on the Cornwall

seacoast?"

At least Pickwick saw to it that he would be able to survive

the weather until such time as he might expand his wardrobe-

But the thought of the old gentleman brought fresh dismay.

He was in London all right—but it appeared to be that of

Charles Dicker.;,-! The benign heroes of the Pickwick Papers

were pleasant enough, but they hardly qualified to assist

Filimore in his cerebral quest. Besides, memories of the

grimmer aspects of some of the "Boz" narratives haunted

him and made him most uneasy. His umbrella, ruled by

cosmic quirk, would not permit him egress from this milieu

until he completed a sequence of action—and Dickens' plots

sometimes covered entire lifetimes. And in the meantime,

what might he do inadvertently to mire himself permanently

in the world of Dickens?

Was there a possibility that by some principle of universal

economy, the London of Dickens was also the same world as

that of Watson and Holmes? To learn the answer, the scholar

was headed towards Baker Street.

"Sherlock Holmes," he mused, with a thrill of anticipa-

tion. "If anyone in me multiplicity of worlds that seem to

coexist with the earth I know can analyze the umbrella,

then—"

The sentiment was interrupted by the abrupt stoppage of

the cab and the simultaneous hurling-forward of the passen-

ger. He bruised his head against the edge of the opposite seat,

The driver shouted, "221 Baker." Fillmore dismounted.

offering, as he did, an epithet to the cabbie in lieu of a tip.

Picking up the oilskin container of clothing, Fillmore crossed

Marvin Kaye

the road just as the disgruntled hansom driver pulled away- A

bit of mud spattered up from the wheels of the cab, but the

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scholar ignored the inconvenience in his excitement as he

spied the large brass plate on the house opposite. His hopes

were high as he scanned the inscription;

221

S HOLMES. CONSULTANT

Apply at Suite B

Dashing up the steps to the front door, he pushed it open

and mounted one flight. The interior was cheery, just as he'd

always imagined it. Green wallpaper paralleled the staircase

and the flickering of gaslamps set in staggered sconces bright-

ened the interior considerably,

He stopped in front of the B apartment and knocked.

Almost immediately, a powerfully built, mustached man in

dressing gown opened the door and invited him to enter.

Stepping inside, Fillmore asked, "You are the good doc-

tor, I presume?"

"Why, yes," the other chuckled, "at least I hope to merit

me appellation. But I imagine you have come to see Holmes,

have you not?"

"I have, indeed." the scholar replied, his heart bearing

rapidly like that of a schoolboy who sees his first love

approaching.

"Sit down, my good man." the doctor invited, meanwhile

pulling on a bell rope in the corner of the cozy sitting room

where he'd ushered his caller. "The fact is, I'm afraid Holmes

is off tending to that dreadful business in Cloisterham. Chap

missing, you may have read about it in the papers: Drood.

But it's a close undercover game Sherrinford is playing and

my presence there would only have confused things, so—"

The doctor stopped, peering at his visitor with concern.

"Pray tell me, sir, are you troubled by some indisposition?"

Fillmore, pale, could barely speak. "What," he whis-

pered, "what did you call Mr. Holmes?"

"Why, Sherrinford, of course! All the world knows

Sherrinford Holmes, do they not? Not the least (I fancy 1 may

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 49

compliment myself) because of the narratives which 1 have

penned concerning his exploits."

"And what," the scholar asked, still hoarse, "and what is

your name?"

The doctor chuckled. "The fickleness of fortune and all

that, eh? I'd thought my little publications might have added

some touch of notoriety to the name of Ormond Sacker, but

apparently—''

Filimore rose in agitation and paced the room, thinking

feverishly. Why were the names the doctor used so nightmar-

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ishly different from the ones he'd expected to hear? Sherrinford,

not Sherlock. Ormond Sacker instead of John H. Watson,

M.D.

On the other hand, why did they also sound so familiar?

"Here, here, my good fellow." said Sacker worriedly. "I

can see you are in considerable agitation. Pray be seated.

Perhaps, in the absence of Holmes, ! can shed some tight on

your problem. Meantime, I notice that the storm has not left

you untainted. Be seated, be seated, man, I have rung for

Mrs. Bardetl and she will be up directly with tea and

perhaps—"

Fillmore interrupted, even paler than before. "Mrs.—

whom7"

"Why—Bardell, Mrs. Bardell, our landlady!" the doctor

said, greatly amazed.

"Not Mrs. Hudson?"

"Hudson? I should think not. There used to be a Mrs.

Warren taking care of this building, but she sold to a Mrs.

Martha Bardell, and that is who ... but see, the knob is

turning now. This is the very woman."

The^ioor opened and a plump woman entered, bearing an

ornate silver tea service in her arms. But when she saw

Fillmore, the woman screamed and dropped the tray. The hot

liquid splashed upon the rug.

"What the devil!" Sacker exclaimed. "Mrs. Bardell! Have

you taken leave of your senses?"

"It's him," the woman wailed, "it's him!"

"What are you speaking about, madam?"

"Him!" she howled, pointing an accusatory finger at J.

Adrian Fillmore.

Marvin Kaye

He, in turn, stared in flabbergasted dismay at the landlady-

She was dressed in a green housecoat with flounce sleeves of

a lighter shade with vertical stripes. On her head she wore a

white, lace-trimmed domestic's cap, tied in a bow beneath

her chin. But despite the disparity of apparel, Fillmore recog-

nized her immediately.

It was Rum.

Chapter Three

Prison. A home away from home, Fillmore mused bitterly.

First, the Pinafore brig. Then the Fleet. Now the Fleet again.

Three times incarcerated since buying the blasted umbrella.

Before then, never a serious brush with the law. (He didn't

count the abortive undergraduate party. At 8 p.m., no one

had shown, so he glumly went out to get himself a steak

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sandwich. When he got back, the place was teeming with

uninvited guests and a coterie of irate campus cops who,

fortunately, had no idea who the host was.)

He huddled in a corner for warmth but did his best to avoid

bodily contact with the lice-ridden sol next to him. In a far

comer, a man with a broken nose and a piercing stare watched

Fillmore every second of the time.

At least they'd let him keep the umbrella for the time

being. After me trial, the authorities might well confiscate his

property and then the scholar would be stuck here for good-

Stuck where? It was obviously Dickensian London, but it

took Fillmore quite a few hours to figure out the weirdly

altered names of Holmes and Watson. When the answer

came, it naturally disturbed him, but at least he began dimly

to perceive the principle of universal economy.

Sherrinford Holmes. Omiond Sacker. These were names

Arthur Conan Doyle toyed with before settling on "Sher-

tock" and "John H. Watson." Fillmore had landed himself

smack in the middle of an incomplete draft of A Study in

Scarlet. An incomplete draft. After all, what had Sacker said

Holmes was busy doing? Investigating the Edwin Drood

mystery—a notoriously unfinished masterpiece . . .

"That damned Ruth," the scholar muttered, clutching his

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 51

umbrella close and trying to ignore the fixed gaze of the man

with the broken nose. "Must have been trying to bnng

charges against me for breach of promise."

Nothing else made sense. It was apparent he'd inherited the

"sequence" from the earlier cosmos, because he was in the

Fleet awaiting such a tnal. Mrs. Bardell, though astonish-

ingly similar in face and form to Ruth, was realty Sacker and

Holmes' landlady ... the very same Mrs. Bardeti who sued

Mr. Samuel Pickwick and landed him in prison in The Pick-

wick Papers.

"Well, at least the old boy did me a favor, and now, it

appears I'm doing him one, whether he ever learns it or no."

It worried the scholar. The outrageously comic trial of Bardell

vs. Pickwick is the dramatic focal point of that Dickens tome.

But some bounder that resembled Fillmore apparently once

jilted Mrs. B., and as a result, the hapless alien seemed to be

usurping the breach-of-promise tnal that ought to—

"There I go again!" Fillmore grumbled to himself. "Con-

fusing fictional events with what takes place in these strange

places I end up in. Do they follow the stories I read on

'normal earth'? Do they branch off wherever they wish?

Maybe this is just an earlier trial and Pickwick's is yet to

come here. Or maybe this is also a draft stage of The

Pickwick Papers ms. Then how do I—?"

He could not even finish the thought. It was too compli-

cated. As hard to define as the identical looks of Mrs. Bardell

and Ruth. Perhaps, he pondered, the entire cosmic system is

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a network of interlinking puzzle boxes, one heartwall eco-

nomically doubling, tripling in alternative dimensions, and

each soul. in sleep, shares identities across the gaps of space

and relative times.

"Bah," he murmured. "Einstein notwithstanding. Time is

a concurrency."

But his philosophic gum-chewing was disturbed by a sharp

poke in the ribs. it was the shifty-eyed ferret seated by him in

the comer of the cell. " 'ere now," he whispered to Fill-

more. "that's a peculiar thing ye've got there. Wherc'd ye

fetch it?"

Fillmore tried to ignore him, but the ferret exchanged the

poke for a pinch. "Ow!" the scholar yelped. "Stop that!"

Marvin Kaye

"I asked ye a question," the ferret whispered. "And keep

yer voice low, if ye value living!"

The scholar faced his tormentor squarely, an angry retort

on his lips, but the impulse stopped when he beheld the

other's expression. The ferret's face was strained, each mus-

cle tensed to the stretching point. His eyes rolled independent

of the fixed head, and they moved in the direction of the

sinister individual on the other side of the celt. The man with

the broken nose.

Hllmore did not look at him. He regarded the ferret anx-

iously, and replied as quietly as his questioner.

"I bought my umbrella far from here- What matter is it?"

" 'im. Don't ye see how he stares at it? I never saw one to

covet something so much. Never takes *is eyes off it."

"I thought he was staring at me."

The ferret shook his head. "Last night, when ye slum-

bered. 'e crept near to examine it. Mutterin' to 'isself. Thought

he'd snatch it then." The ferret shrugged. "But then, where'd

'e go with it?" The beady eyes narrowed, glinting with an

eager urgency- "Ye want advice, man? If he asks for it, don't

argue. Sell it, or make it a gift. Don'1 cross 'im!"

Fillmore shook his head. "Impossible. 1 can't part with my

umbrella!"

"I tell ye, man, *e's half-mad! Don't cross 'im! They'll

'ave 'im out in a day or two and then 'e'U wait for ye, and

'e'll 'ave 'is cane."

What in all good hell is he babbling about? Filtmore won-

dered. The man has no cane. hi fact, he walks perfectly well.

Look at him—

The man with the broken nose was standing. He turned his

gaze briefly on the little ferret, and that person shrank away

from Fillmore and cowered in a comer of the cell.

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What kind of a crazy sequence is this. anyway? If this is

the Baidell trial, why should I worry about strange men with

umbrella fixations? Even if he is dangerous, and even if he

gets out of prison and tries to wait for me. my trial will keep

me here indefinitely. And then? Damn, 1 may never escape!

"Permit me to introduce myself." The tall. sinister man

proffered his card.

Fiilmore stood. He was startled at the meek civility of the

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 53

•'a.

•

other's mien. From a distance, he appeared so menacing. But

now, he must rectify his mistake. A toff, doubtless, confined

for some minor infraction of the peace. He was well dressed.

dark suit, ruffled shirt, a thin tie which might have passed

muster a century later on campus.

The card told him nothing. It bore nothing but a name,

"A. I. Persano."

"I trust my reputation is not unknown to you?" he asked.

His face was smiling in a way that might suggest a double

meaning to the question. But Fillmore knew no one inti-

mately in this peculiar world of confused beginnings, so he

could certainly not identify the stranger by reputation.

"1 have been admiring that odd instrument which you have

over your arm," Persano remarked. "May I examine it more

closely?"

Fillmore found it hard to deny the reasonable request, so

mildly was it made, and yet, something warned him to re-

fuse. From the comer of his eye, he saw the ferret urgently

motioning him to comply. With considerable reluctance, the

scholar relinquished the instrument.

The tali man minutely inspected the umbrella, turning it

this way and that, pausing to push back the cloth folds and

read the partially obliterated inscription on the handle. As he

did, Filimore studied the lean, hard face. The eyes never

blinked. The mouth was set in a half-grin that could easily be

assessed as cruel. The nose, too, at close scrutiny, was even

more disturbing than it first appeared. It was not broken after

all. Rather it had been sliced, as if by some sharp edge. A

deep lateral furrow creased the bridge, so that it resembled an

ill-set fracture. But Persano was not the kind to indulge in

violent roughhouse, Fillmore was sure. He was too con-

tained, too deceptively calm. He might deal in rapier, never

in bludgeon.

Persano returned the umbrella without comment. Then,

apparently satisfied, he asked what Fillmore was doing in

jail. The scholar outlined the details of his case, and the other

clucked in doleful sympathy.

"Who defends you?" the tall man asked.

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"Myself."

"And who represents the Bardell interests?"

Marvm Kaye

Fillmore shuddered. He knew who Martha Bardell's barris-

ters must be. "Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, I do presume."

"What? Then you're a fool, man. You have no choice but

to raise capital sufficient to fee attorneys as crooked as those

pettifoggers!"

"1 haven't the money." Fillmore demurred. He refused to

petition Pickwick. That might be an action which would mire

him in the mishmosh-world he'd stumbled into. The best

course was to maintain a detached air from the circumstances

afflicting him.

"Since you arc destitute," Persano said, smiling, "I have

a suggestion."

Silence.

Fillmore knew what the other was about to say.

"Sell me your umbrella. I will pay handsomely for it."

"Why?"

"It. . . amuses me."

Fillmore shook his head. To his relief, the other did not

press his request.

Persano merely smiled more broadly. "Very well," he

murmured. "There are other ways."

The following day, A. 1. Persano was released from prison.

Two days later, a warder unlocked the door of the cell.

"FiUmore." He jerked his thumb to the door. "Out."

"Is it time for my trial?"

The warder shook his head. "Won't be one. Ye're free."

"Free?"

The ferret clucked in warning. "I told ye."

"How can I be free?" the scholar demanded, amazed.

puzzled, overjoyed—and simultaneously uneasy.

'' Plaintiff s counsel dropped charges. No estate worth speak-

ing of to cover the expense."

"Estate? What are you talking about?"

The warder drew one finger across his throat in a gesture as

meaningful in one world as another. "Bardell," he said.

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"Last night. Someone cut 'er throat."

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 55

Chapter Four

For once, he was not anxious to get out of prison. He dragged

his footsteps along the last corridor before the outside gate

and cudgeled his brains to make out what sort of dreadful

sequence he'd landed in-

It could be the grimmer side of Dickens, he thought,

Perhaps the only way to terminate one's existence here is to

die. He shuddered.

At the front gate, he entreated the constable accompanying

him to protect him, but the other merely grunted, "Oh, ye'll

be noted, right enough," then turned and left Fillmore to the

mercy of the streets.

What did he mean by that? the scholar wondered. Then,

with a shock of dismay, he realized that he must be consid-

ered gravely suspect in the eyes of the police. "Bah!" he

snapped, loud enough to be heard: "If I couldn't hire an

attorney, what makes them think 1 could afford an assassin to

murder Mrs. Bardell?"

He peered about nervously, but there was no trace of the

sinister Persano anywhere. It was early, but the sickly pall of

London mist obscurred the sun. Few foot passengers trav-

ersed the section of thoroughfares near the Fleet.

Fillmore walked aimlessly for a time, trying to work out

Ac problem of the cosmic block of action he was expected to

participate in. Since the breach-of-promise mat had come to

naught, he could only presume that the uncompleted sequence

with Ruth in G&S land had finally run its course. But a new

situation appears to have taken up, the scholar mused,

worriedly. A dreadful situation, very like.

He was just crossing Bentinck Street at the comer of

Oxford when he heard a sudden clatter of hooves and the

rumble of a large vehicle. He swerved in his tracks and paled.

A two-horse van, apparently parked at a nearby curb, was in

furious motion, bearing directly down on him. Fillmore ut-

tered a lusty yell and leaped a good six or seven feet onto the

curb. Without stopping; he ducked down behind a lamppost

and did not rise until the carriage rolled into the distance and

was lost to sight and sound.

56 f4arvin Kaye

He rose, puffing mightily. The }ump was the heartiest

exercise he'd undergone since trying to run away from Katisha

weeks earlier. His heart pounded against his ribcage. Fillmore

glanced right and left, but the few pedestrians in view went

about their business, oblivious to the near-accident which had

just occurred.

But was it an accident?

He continued his journey, but did not allow himself the

luxury of abstracted thought- Instead, Fillmore looked right

and left, backwards and forwards, fearful of another attack,

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And yet the street seemed deserted. He was practically the

only fool passenger traversing the avenue.

His very solitariness made him even more anxious. He was

an easy target for anyone who might be following just

beyond the curtain of the fog. At the next comer, he looked

down the cross street and decided to lake it, in hopes of

coming to a more populous quarter of town-

There was a constable in the middle of the block. Fillmore

breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was safe for a few steps .. -

The constable turned and regarded him. The man's face

turned ash-white. He stuck his whistle to his lips and blasted

it, at the same time thrusting an arm directly at the professor.

Flilmore, astonished, hopped back a step, and wondered

whether he ought to run.

At the same instant, a huge brick smashed with tremendous

impact upon the pavement directly in front of him. One more

step and the brick would have crushed his skull.

Fillmore and the officer regarded each other for a second or

two, too relieved to speak. Then Fillmore stepped far out into

the street—looking carefully both ways—and walked over to

the other, thanking him with great eamestness.

"I pride myself," said the constable, "on a quick reaction

time. Fortunate for you, right enough."

"Yes ... but who dropped that deuced brick?" Fillmore

squawked.

The other's eyes widened. "Never occurred to me it wasn't

an accident! Come, then! Better be brisk!"

Without another word, the constable dashed into the door-

way of the large, cold tenement house from which the missile

had apparently been impelled. Fillmore accompanied him,

THE PLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 57

preferring to be in the company of the law at that moment

than to be left waiting defensetess in the street.

They climbed dark, interminable stairs, redolent of cab-

bage and. other less tolerable reeks. At length they found the

skylight, which was reachable only by means of an iron

ladder stapled with great brackets against the wall- It was a

sheer vertical climb and Fillmore did not relish it.

At last they stood upon the roof, a good four or five stories

above the street (Fillmore had lost count of how many flights

they'd taken in the ascent). There was a large chimney stack

off to one side, and the remnants of a clothesline, evidently

blown down by a gust of wind. By the street edge of the roof

lay a pile of shingles, slate and brick, the flotsam of some

antique building venture.

"There's your accident," the officer said, jerking his head

towards the pile of construction leavings. "Wind must've

worked one loose. Bit of a hazard. I'd best move 'em."

Fillmore, after thanking the policeman once more, left him

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laboring on the roof. He doubted it was an accident, and if it

was not, then he was in danger from the assailant, who must

still be in the neighborhood. He wanted to cling to the

protection of the law, but his conscience would not permit

him to endanger the officer who saved his life—and proxim-

ity to J. Adrian (what a beastly name!) Fillmore might do just

that.

On the stairwell, he tried the catch of the umbrella, but it

would not open. The sequence was far from finished.

Just as he was turning the comer of the last landing leading

to the street level and the doorway out, he thought he heard a

slight noise below, in the comer of the corridor leading

alongside the first approach of the stairwell. He peered down

me side of the banister, but it was dark and he could see

nothing.

He paused, unsure of what to do, whether to go back or

forward. To rejoin the policeman would only prolong the

danger. With a sudden burst of nerve, Fillmore leaped the

railing and, umbrella pointed downward, dropped to the floor

below.

A thud and a moan. A burly body broke his fall. He lugged

me lurker into the moted dusthght and saw a feral visage, rich

Marvin Kaye

in scars and whiskers. A life-preserver—the British equiva-

lent of a blackjack—was still clutched in the assailant's hand.

but the man was unconscious.

Fillmore slumped against the wall, almost nauseous with

fear. In the past half-hour, his life had been attempted three

times, and, what may have been worse, he'd met the dangers

with expedition and a physical courage all unsuspected in his

makeup, ft worried him as much as the danger.

Maybe that's what got me stuck in this damned place!

Fillmore shook his head to clear it of the vertigo that the fail

brought about- No time for cosmic trepidations. Probably

more danger, any moment, any second . . .

He quickly turned out the pockets of the man on me floor,

but found nothing incriminating or enlightening. The life-

preserver he stuck into his own back pocket.

Slowly, fearfully, Fillmore cracked open the front door.

The street was no longer sparse of population. A knot of

people milled about the middle of me street, shouting, giving

unobeyed orders; one person was busily engaged in retching

on the sidewalk.

The professor hurried down the front steps and peered

through the press of people. There was a body smeared along

the street, a bloody rag of flesh and dislocated bone.

It was the policeman. Someone must have shoved him

from the roof, Fillmore realized, horrified-

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"The chimney! The bastard must have been behind it!"

Angry for the first time since the game of stalk-and-attack

started, Fillmore wanted to punish the killer who'd destroyed

a man who'd saved his own life. He trotted to the middle of

the street, shielding his eyes from the glare of hidden sun

shining through blanched clouds. Was there someone still on

the roof? Could he take him, too. like the^thug in the stairwell?

For answer, a fierce face suddenly appeared at the edge of

me building top. An odd weapon quickly swiveled into posi-

tion and pointed straight at the scholar.

He ran zigzag, hoping to evade the inevitable shot. But the

other was a crack marksman. Even with the difficulty of

hitting a moving target, the villain managed to lodge one shot

in Fillmore's shoulder.

The professor staggered. What did that character say in the

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 59

Fredric Brown novel? "If you are killed here, you wilt be

dead ... in every world." Fillmore stumbled to his feet. The

strange weapon—which made no noise—was already in posi-

tion for another shot.

My God! It's an air-rifle!

The horrible universe suddenly fell into place. Terror over-

came Fillmore and gave him the strength of mad desperation.

He shot out across the street, waving the umbrella in huge,

confusing arcs, changing direction every few seconds. He

headed for the juncture of streets again, and as he did,

shouted and screamed for help. Some of the denizens of the

neighborhood huddled about the constable's body stared at

the crazy fellow and decided instantly that it was he who

must have murdered the officer. No one advanced to Fill-

more's aid.

Oddly enough, there was no second bullet. Fillmore reached

the intersection safely. He saw a hansom slowly rumbling

down the middle of the avenue. "I must look a fearful

sight," he thought, "shoulder bleeding, weird umbrella wav-

ing about like a Floradora girl's prop ..."

Fillmore took no chances. He ran straight into the path of

the hansom shouting for it to stop. At the last instant, remem-

bering the dreadful attempt of the two-horse van to run him

down, he experienced an awful qualm. But the cab pulled to

a stop.

"Baker Street," Fillmore gasped, jumping in and slam-

ming the door. "Number 221."

The cab rattled off slowly. The scholar gasped for suffi-

cient breath, then pounded the sides and shouted for the

driver to make haste, but to no avail. The hansom lumbered

sluggishly along, neither creeping nor hurrying. Fillmore stuck

his head out of the window and surveyed the street behind.

There were no vehicles in pursuit.

He leaned back against the wall of the cab and panted.

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"Safe for a time, at least," he murmured. "I just hope that

Shcrrinford—"

Before he could even complete the thought, the cab lurched

to a stop. Fillmore stuck his head out the window. "Here,

what is this? This isn't Baker Street!"

"No, sir," the cabbie said, dismounting. He walked to

60 Marvin Kaye

Fillmoie's door and stood by it, preventing ii from opening.

"Taking on another passenger, we are, sir."

Fillmore regarded him blankly. Then he swung around in

his seat, hoping to get out the other way. But that door was

already opening.

The new passenger rested his cane against the seat and

closed the door behind himself. He settled comfortably into

the place opposite Fillmore.

"You've caused us a deal of trouble this morning." A. 1.

Persano remarked mildly.

Chapter Five

The cabbie whipped the horse to a froth. The hansom rattled

along at breakneck speed. Fillmore braced himself to keep

from bouncing straight through me flimsy ceiling. He gritted

his teeth at me ache in his shoulder.

Persano, riding as skillfully as if mounted on a thorough-

bred, was- quite amiable. He regarded the other's persecution

as a tiresome necessity, to be managed with swift expedition,

but utterly without malice. Not to be discussed in polite

company. The Code, by all means!

"Had you been reasonable," he stated mildly, "all this

pother might have been eclipsed."

"Meaning I should have given you the umbrella?"

Persano gravely inclined his head.

"Rubbish!" Fillmore said with great asperity. "You are in

a frenzy to get this instrument. Therefore, you must know its

function. It follows, then, that you know 1 couldn't part with

it at any price."

Persano clucked disapprovingly. "I could tell the authori-

ties that the umbrella was stolen from my employer."

"You are blathering nonsense! Anyone with a shred of

sense must deduce your employer has no desire to sec this

instrument's astonishing properties made public. You could

have reported it stolen in prison. Instead, two people are dead

because of it. and I have a bullet in my shoulder.''

"An unfortunately staged episode," Persano agreed, sti-

fling a yawn. "The Colonel has no idea of how to achieve

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 61

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maximum effect with minimal effort. His aggression grows in

inverse proportion to his waning manhood."

Suddenly, the puzzle, nearly solved, all clicked into place.

The ferocious Colonel Sebastian Moran! ("The second most

dangerous man in London, Watson!") And the kindly sor-

cerer, John Wellington Wells, admitted to spying on a master

mathematician, from whom he stole the umbrella. The instru-

ment must be the brainchild of the brilliantly evil kingpin of

London crime. Professor Moriarty! And then, another thought;

Holmes once spoke of two especially dangerous members of

me Moriarty gang- One was Moran. Persano must be the

other.

Fillmore, shuddering, commented on Persano's remark.

"You arc of course, referring to Colonel Moran."

For a split-second, the mask of indifference dropped, and

me other subjected Fillmore to a deadly scrutiny- Then his

eyes clouded over again and Persano propped his cane by his

chin and chuckled.

"Cards on the table, eh?" He nodded approvingly- "Very

welt, then, an end to games-playing: you, sir, are either an

agent or a foot."

"What do you mean?" Fillmore stanched the wound HI his

throbbing shoulder with a handkerchief.

"It cannot be that you are with the Yard," Persano mused.

"A provocateur would not allow a fellow constable to blindly

face an unseen foe without ample warning. Nor, for that

matter, would Sherrinford Holmes stick someone else's neck

on the chopping block. No. You did not lure me into an

imminent trap. You are engaged in a lone game against the

greatest organization of its type in the world. You are, there-

fore, a colossal fool."

"In a word, you refer to Professor Moriarty's organization."

"Who?" Persano asked, pretending perplexity.

There was a lengthy silence.

"I do not know to whom you refer," Persano said, "but I

might amend what 1 said before. I called you a fool. 1 suspect

you are worse: a veritable lunatic. But the tense soon shall

alter ..."

Fillmore clutched the umbrella tight, his thoughts racing.

His life was in great danger. In whichever world he blun-

Marvin Kaye

dered, he ended up a victim. In this clime, he might well end

his sequence permanently.

"This needs no further discussion, 1 think," Fillmore said

airily, attempting an ease of manner which he hoped might

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match his opponent's. He shifted in the uncomfortable car-

riage seat. "You will steal the umbrella and there's an end of

it."

Persano shook his head, an earnest expression on his face.

"Really that is not possible. Don't you see? You, an indepen-

dent agent, are somehow privy to details that my employer

would not like bruited about. You are able to set my face and

name to several recent incidents of dubious merit. You carry

a pellet in you from an airgun and there are many unsolved

crimes connected with such a weapon. What is worse, you

know me Colonel's last name. No, no. it's quite impossible,

surely you see my position?"

His eyebrows raised quizzically. He really seemed con-

cerned lest Fillmore fail to comprehend and sanction the

deplorable step that must be taken.

It did not fool Fiilmore- Persano had never taken pains to

cover his involvement in the "incidents." What was worse,

he freely volunteered information about Moran's association

with other atrocities. Persano evidently never at all intended

to let the scholar survive.

"Look," he blurted, "I have a different suggestion. Come

with me someplace else so dial I am no longer in this world.

I'll go back to my own cosmos! Then you can take the

damned umbrella and return here!"

Persano shook his head again. "I can't do that. How do I

know how long it will take before that thing decides to work

again? If it could work now, you wouldn't be here at this

moment. But even if you could waft us elsewhere immedi-

ately, you know I could not use the umbrella for long after-

wards, and 1 have no rime to wait."

"Why couldn't you use it?" Fillmore asked.

Persano eyed him curiously, "I think you actually don't

know."

"Know wter?" His shoulder still hurt. The carriage had

decelerated to a more bearable rate, but he still was unable to

sit comfortably.

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 63

Persano reached over and took the umbrella. Fillmore tried

to hold tight, but the other easily plucked it from his grasp.

Persano pushed aside the hood folds, and put his thumb on

the catch.

"Observe." He pushed the button.

Nothing happened.

"It is imprinted with your brain pattern. It will take a long

time to readjust. Unless . . ."

He let the thought dangle in me air, drumming his finger-

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tips on the central pole of the bumbershoot.

A long while passed. They stared at one another without

speaking.

Then the horse slowed to a walk.

"We are almost there," Persano said in a low voice.

"Where?"

"A warehouse. Prepare to disembark."

Persano looked out the window. As he did, Fillmore sud-

denly realized why he was having so much trouble sitting

comfortably. There was something in his back-pocket—

The life-preserver!

Carefully, carefully, he reached his hand around to get the

sapping tool. His fingers crept. Persano stared out the window.

Good! Teeth clenched, a cold perspiration bespangling his

brow. the pedant strained for the ersatz blackjack. Another

quarter-inch . . .

It snagged in a fold of his pocket, and he could not yank it

free. Fillmore tugged, but his arm was in an awkward posi-

tion and he hadn't ample leverage to twist out the thing

cleanly.

The carriage shuddered to a stop.

"End of the line," Persano announced, turning. His eyes

narrowed. "What are you doing?" he asked, his tone sug-

gesting me indulgent displeasure of a kindly schoolteacher

towards a wayward urchin.

Fillmore frantically pulled at the cosh. The whole back

pocket of his pants ripped off. At last, he had it in his hand.

But the quick movement triggered Persano. Swiftly, sound-

lessly. he shot forward and clutched Fillmore's throat in a

steel grip. He was not angry, only methodical. Whatever

Fillmore was trying to do, Persano immediately recognized it

64 Marvin Kaye

as a last-ditch effort and knew be must bring it to naught. ^

Though the business was clearly beneath him—throttling was

the preserve of brutal underlings—he squeezed Fiilmore's

windpipe quite efficiently, nonetheless.

The scholar once read that it only takes a professional killer

seven seconds to choke someone to death. Already the lights

of life danced dimly and dwindled. He knew he only had

strength in his arm for a single assault—

He cracked the preserver against the base of Persano's

neck. (Gesture derived from countless spy and war films.)

Persano slumped for a second, only a second; the quick mind

analyzed the extent of danger with incredible celerity and

marshaled strength for a new attack. ;

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But FUlmore only needed the one respite. He heaved Persano

off and simultaneously raked one hand upwards over the

other's face from jaw to nose (a trick out of Shone} while the --

other hand slammed the life preserver into the throat thus

presented for the blow (Bad Day at Black Rock).

Persano gagged and doubled up.

Dropping the cosh, Fillmore wrested free the umbrella and

jumped out the opposite side of the carnage from that which

he'd entered. Just then, the driver pulled the other door open;

seeing he was gone, he cursed at Fillmore, slammed the door

and started after him. Fillmore threw his weight against the .^

hansom, hoping to tip it over onto the driver, but the effort ^

drew fresh pain from his shoulder wound and only earned H

him a good jarring butt. ^

He saw the feet of the driver rounding the carriage, so he H

started the other way. An idea struck him and he vaulted onto H

the driver's seat ("Thanks to Gene Autry'") and slapped the

reins.

The horse ambled forward two inches and stopped.

"Damn! It always looks so easy11'

The driver came up on him. A sinewy, saturnine thug he

was, with a dagger in his hand. He hauled himself onto the

seat, slashing at Fillmore, but the professor administered a

stunning blow to the chest with the whip handle ("courtesy

Lash LaRue") and the rascal landed on his back in the street,

roaring.

The horse, mistaking the bellow for an order, reared up.

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 65

"Whoa!" Fillmore yelled. The animal, unfamiliar with the

western idiom, interpreted the word as a seconding motion

and immediately adopted the measure by dashing forth. The

cab careened to one side, righted itself and lurched behind the

crazed beast.

The jolt pitched Fillmore backwards. He nearly lost his

grip on the umbrella, but clutched frantically, regained his

hold, and simultaneously squirmed onto his face so he could

embrace the cab roof with arms spread wide.

The horse stormed down the cobbled thoroughfare, which

was a road that directly paralleled the river. Warehouses sped

past; a confusion of disappearing drydocks. Cursing dock-

wallopers sprang out of the path of me runaway.

Filimore hugged the roof. too winded and frightened to

move. But suddenly, the blade of a sword swiftly emerged

from the roof one-sixteenth of an inch in front of his nose. He

decided to budge after ail.

While the blade was withdrawing for another thrust, he

scrambled into the driver's seat and fished for the reins. No

use; they hung over the lip and jounced in the roadbed; he

strained but could not reach them. Next thing he knew, the

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furious pitch of the ride bumped his teeth together so he bit

his tongue and shoved him straight back against the cab

housing. He instantly pushed forward, narrowly avoiding the

sword point which emerged at the place where his body had

made impact.

He ran his hand down the umbrella and tried to snap it

open- No go! Then he saw a new danger up ahead. About two

blocks in the distance, the street curved sharply; where it

turned, the embankment terminated and there was a sheer

unprotected drop into the river.

Two thoughts, bom of desperation and an acquaintanceship

with Hopalong Cassidy and screen versions of The Three

Musketeers, popped into his head. He peered ahead—yes!

Just before the turn there was a custom house with empty

flagpole jutting from the second-story . . .

He sprang forward onto the traces and grabbed the link-pin

with the handle of the umbrella. Fiilmore seized the shaft of

the bumbershoot and hauled up until the pin was almost free.

66 Marvin Kaye

He stood up, balancing wobbily, squinting to gauge the cor-

rect angle and distance, waiting for the vital precise second.

"Now!"

Jumping as high as he could, he latched onto the flagpole

with one hand, at the same time tugging on the umbrella so

the link-pin disengaged. The carriage-top smartly smacked

his ankle and, with a tremendous effort, Fillmore hooked the

umbrella over his other arm and got a second purchase on the

pole with his left hand. The carriage rumbled past beneath

him. A bolt of pain struck his shoulder, but he endured it,

watching with gnm approval me event happening in the street

below.

The cab lost speed and the steed, no longer shackled to it,

pulled on ahead. It negotiated the bend, but the carriage

lumbered straight to the edge, teetered for a fraction of a

second, men plummeted into me icy Thames with a colossal

splash.

"And that," Fillmore observed with satisfaction "is the

last anyone will see of Mr. A. I. Persano!"

His pleasure was short-lived. Now that the immediate dan-

ger was over, it occurred to him that he hadn't the foggiest

idea of how to get down from the flagpole without breaking his

neck. But it didn't take him long to devise a course of action.

"Help!" Fillmore shouted. "Get me the hell off of here!"

Chapter Six

Sacker shook his head incredulously. "That is the strangest

story I have ever heard, sir. Either you are up to something

nefarious, or you are mad."

"I tell you that I am not lying'" Filhnore protested. "Would

I mention Professor Moriarty if I were part of his gang?"

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The argument had been going on for several minutes, and

the professor was beginning to despair of ever convincing the

good doctor that he was anything but a raving lunatic. Had it

not been for his shoulder wound, Sacker probably would not

have permitted him entry into Shemnford Holmes' flat, half

convinced as he was that Fillmore was indirectly responsible

for Mrs. Bardell's murder.

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 67

The doctor shook his head slowly. "You come to me with

wild tales about dimensional transfers—whatever that means—

and worlds where I only exist in an unpublished manuscript

and Holmes is not Holmes! The least marvelous portion of

your romance is that which you claim happened this morning:

runaway hansoms, customs clerks hauling you off flagpoles,

brickbats and dead policemen! Surely, sir, you do not find it

marvetous that 1 have some difficulty swallowing all this?"

Fillmore nodded wearily. It had been a most exhausting

day, and his bandaged shoulder still throbbed dully. The

night was drawing on and he wanted nothing more dramatic

man sleep. But duty was duty, in whatever world he inhab-

ited. If the Moriarty gang were so bent on attaining the

umbrella, it could only follow that the infamous professor had

some awful scheme in mind.

But Sacker was adamant. "Holmes only mentioned this

pedagogue of yours once, and that recently. Whatever he did.

I do not know. For Holmes only alluded to him on that one

occasion at the time of his disappearance."

"His disappearance?!"

Sacker nodded. "Yes. I do recall Holmes' relief. And his

perplexity. One day, he said, Moriarty was in London, the

next he was nowhere on the face of the earth. 'And good

riddance, Sacker!' he remarked, and there was an end of the

conversation. 1 never heard Monarty's name again until you

brought it up tonight."

"Well, well," Fillmore said impatiently, "whatever may

be the status of the professor, he has a strong and wicked

organization which still carries on his works. It must be

quashed. And since its lieutenants know about my umbrella,

it is imperative that 1 speak to Shemnford Hotmes immedi-

ately!"

"Well, as for that," Sacker suggested, "I suppose you

could come along with me tonight. Holmes has communi-

cated from Cloisterham, where that business is all but wrapped

up. He needs some final service pertaining to one Mr. Sapsea,

and I am to perform it." Sacker chuckled. "Holmes rarely

asks me to tackle anything histrionic. It must be a goose.

indeed, to whom I must play the poker!"

Fitlmore's brows knit. It sounded familiar ... ah. yes, the

Marvin Kaye

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"Sapsea" fragment found in Dickens' study after his death,

an enigmatic portion of the Edwin Drood manuscript that

remained unpublished for many years. The rough-draft aspect

of the present world still held. It occurred to the scholar that

io a place composed of unfinished or half-polished literary

concepts, it might not be possible to complete a sequence and

get free- He nervously tapped his fingers against the curved

grip of the umbrella and tried to follow the thought, but

Sacker spoke again.

' *I must ask you not to interfere with the progress of the

case, or attempt to communicate with Holmes until he gives

me leave to bring you forward. If you can agree to that, then

you may accompany me on the 10:40 out ofCharing Cross.'*

"Very well," Fillmore replied reluctantly. "But perhaps I

might be able to give you a note to pass on to Holmes when

we arrive. Time may be of the essence!"

The doctor nodded. "And now, since we can do nothing

until it is time to entrain, I suggest we follow my friend's

habit of tabling all talk of hypothetical crises until we have

detabled. I will send round for an amiable Bordeaux and ask

Mrs. Raddle, our new landlady, to set out supper. Does that

seem agreeable?'*

"Oh, of course,** Fillmore concurred, dimly wondering

where he'd heard of Mrs. Raddle before- "I take it you have

decided not to regard me as an imminent threat."

"Well, sir," Sacker chuckled, "I must admit that is an

odd angle for a man to shoot himself as a piece of corrobora-

tive evidence. I still cannot accept the wild history you

related, but if you are mad, sir, at least it is an engaging

malady. Besides, I detect a man of learning in you, and a

scholar is by no means the worst of dinner companions."

Fillmore thanked the doctor for his courtesy and mentally

noted that Sacker/Watson certainly matched the old Holmesian

observation (was it first made by Christopher Moriey?) that a

man might be honored to meet the Great Detective, but it

would be Watson with whom a wintery evening, a cold

supper and brandy would be most enjoyed.

While the good physician stepped downstairs to talk to

Mrs. Raddle (she's in Pickwick Papers, too, isn't she?),

Fillmore busied himself looking about the drawing room/

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 69

library- It was easy to tell which portion of the bookshelves

belonged to Holmes and which to Sacker. One half, or better,

was cram full of standard references and albums of clippings

of cnminous activity. The other side of the room was devoted

to a broad assortment of escape literature—tales of early

English battles, ghost stories, high romance on the seas, an

occasional sampler of sentimental poetry and (perhaps in

deference to Holmes1 profession) a tattered copy of the lurid

Newgate Calendar, a volume destined for ignominy in an-

other world.

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Sacker had one book open on a table by his easy chair and

the professor walked over to inspect what it was. "Ah! A

man of similar tastes in fantasy," he murmured. "Benson's

The Room in the Tower and other ghastly tales." He turned

the book around and flipped through it, holding Sacker's

place. The doctor evidently had just begun reading a short

story. "Caterpillars." Fillmore remembered it with a shudder.

The doctor reentered the room and made a courteous re-

mark concerning escapist literature, the likes of which Fill-

more held in his hand. "Yes. yes, the Bensons are rather a

dynasty," Sacker agreed. "I have another one, by Edward's

brother. Robert Hugh. The Mirror of Shallot. Odd. Excellent."

Fillmore checked himself. He had been about to comment

on Ac finding of the identical volume years later on the day

he purchased the umbrella, but it occurred to him that the

doctor would regard the assertion as further evidence that his

wits weren't all in working order.

Supper was sumptuous, if simple fare. A roast beef, rare

and huge. A brace of game. Trifle, coffee and brandy. The

only disappointment was the Bordeaux, which was temporar-

ily out of stock. In apology, Mrs. Raddle sent up a cherished

tawny port, which Sacker set aside for post-dessert, if the

professor so desired. The doctor clearly had no enthusiasm

for the stuff, Fillmore, however, had not dined well since

sharing supper with Mr. Pickwick, and he availed himself of

all there was to be had, including the landlady's pnze port,

the effect of which was to lull him into a much-needed sleep.

He awoke with a start. It was dark in me room, and there

wasn't a sound. He reached out, encountered a nightstand

with a box of matches on it. He rumbled for one, lit it. noted

Marvin Kaye

the box to be one of those cheap cardboard pillboxes into

which matches had been crammed. Perhaps it belonged to

Holmes; it sounded like his brand of freefonn adaptation,

Persian slippers used to hold shag tobacco, knives stuck to

the mantel to fix correspondence in place . . .

There was a lamp nearby. Fillmore lit it and turned up the

key so he could better determine what surroundings he had. It

was a small bed chamber, plain, with a wardrobe and a low

table with mirror behind it where Holmes assuredly put on his

disguises. There was a piece of paper affixed to the mirror in

a place where Fillmore could not help but notice. He rose and

took the lamp with him so he could read what was written

thereon.

"My dear Fillmore." it said, "I had no idea your injury

had so exhausted you. It was impossible to rouse you, and

considering this as a physician, I am not so sure it will be

wise for you to spend the better part of the night on a drafty

railway train. Your resistance is low and you may do yourself

an injury by coming, susceptible as you may be to sundry ills

and fevers. I have put you in Holmes' bed, mine being

uncharacteristically untidy and his having had the benefits of

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Mrs. Raddle's ministrations, and am off to catch the 10:40. If

you do not sleep the night, you may wish to read; I will leave

Ae drawing-room lights on for you. You are. of course,

welcome to whatever fare you can find, and you may also use

my toilet articles, shaving brush, etc. We shall return in a few

days. If you feel the urgent need to see Holmes as soon as

possible, you may, of course, join us in Cloislerham. The

decision is yours. But. pertaining to the dangers you re-

hearsed, I must say, on your behalf, that a hasty perusal of

Holmes' files shows that there is indeed in London one "Is.

Persano," an athlete, duelist and singlestick competitor of

awesome accomplishment. His card is checked in red ink,

which Holmes employs for particularly dangerous criminals.

tf this is the same individual whom you claim to have dogged

you, it may be wisest to stay at Baker Street and to not set

foot out of doors until we get back. But 1 must not miss the

train. Farewell. O.S."

Fillmore was too drowsy to clear his head and recall the

reference that was bumping about in the back of his brain. He

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 71

still felt logy. Rubbing his eyes, yawning, he walked to the

door connecting with the drawing room/library. At least steep

had refreshed his memory on the matter of Mrs. Raddle. She

was Bob Sawyer's landlady in Dickens, and a contributory

vexation to Mr. Pickwick. A low, spiteful shrew who might

do anything for money.

Roused from sleep, Fillmore's appetite had also returned.

He wondered whether any of the beef was still left, or if it

was all put away.

And what about the umbrella?

Certainly Sacker would have left it behind, yet Fillmore

experienced a few qualms until he opened the door and saw

the instrument propped in the same corner where he'd left it.

That was reassuring; even more so was the sight of the

unconsumed food still waiting, covered, on the table.

"The benevolent Dr. Sacker-alias-Watson," Fillmore

beamed, stepping forward to lift the cover on the plate of

beef. And then his warm sense of well-being plummeted and

died.

There was a man seated in the doctor's easy chair by the

fireside, a book on his lap; he was reading intently.

"By all means, sit and eat," Persano invited. "I have a

few pages yet to go."

The man with the sliced nose did not even deign to look at

Fillmore. He seemed possessed by the Benson volume in his

hands.

Fillmore dashed over to the umbrella, and got a grip on it.

He pushed aside the drapery that encloaked the left front

window. The street outside was empty.

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Should I smash through the glass, make a bit of a vault

into the street? But a thought occurred to him concerning

air-guns. He peered at the dark edifice directly opposite. A

sudden glint of reflected light shone and was instantly gone, but

it was enough to inform Fillmore that someone lurked behind

one of the windows of Camden House, which must be the

empty home across Baker Street from 221. (It was in Camden

House mat Colonel Moran lurked when he attempted to assas-

sinate Sherlock in "The Adventure of the Empty House.")

There was no point in trying a dash for it. Unless there was

a back way, Fillmore was trapped with Persano.

Marvin Kaye

"In case you are in a gymnastic mood," Persano remarked,

"allow me to advise you that the house is entirely sur-

rounded. Now pray wait a moment longer. 1 have but a single

page to complete."

Fillmore stood rooted to the spot, his appetite gone, wait-

ing for the villainous Persano to come to the end of the tale in

which he was engrossed.

Persano perceptibly shuddered as he closed the book. "That

was indeed a horror!" he remarked. "I have always been a

devotee of the fantastic. Are you familiar with the genre?"

Fillmore said nothing.

"Oh, come." said the other, "the mere matter of the

umbrella and your inevitable demise can surely wait. There is

nothing more soothing in this world than to contemplate

something truly dreadful, such as Benson's 'Caterpillars,' and

then come safely back to this mundane world where the only

atrocities are the humdrum stuff of daily business. The tale is

not up to 'The Room in the Tower,* but then, what is? Still,

the idea of ghastly crablike caterpillars, giant ghostly crea-

tures and their miniature daylight counterparts that scuttle

about with their excrescent bodies and infect those that they

bite with cancer—such is no ordinary cauchemar. It almost

makes the idea of ordinary death-by-violence drab and

comfortable."

Persano flashed his mirthless smile at Fillmore. Then, in a

leisurely fashion, he extracted a thin cigar, bit off the end,

spat it and requested a light from the scholar. Numbly,

Fillmore tossed the pillbox to the other, who caught it, took

out a match, struck it and lit me cigar.

Persano regarded the matchbox momentarily. "A box like

this figures in the tale. Do you know it? An artist captures a

miniature crablike caterpillar and keeps it in the box unlit he

changes his mind and treads on the insect, which seals his

doom." His shoulders went up and he shivered in fear. "I

believe if I found such a creature in this box, my mind would

snap. I have seen the ravages of the disease." He regarded

his cigar with melancholy dissatisfaction. "That is the curse

of all earthly endeavor, is it not? We bargain and bully and

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bludgeon for our own ends, but in no wise can we crush the

microbes that infest us from within. I should hope ! should go

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 73

mad and do terminal injury to myself rather than undergo

such a horror as 1^ once witnessed and have just read about."

He regarded me professor darkly, then his wicked smile

reappeared. "But I wax melancholy. Shall we proceed to

brighter matters?''

"How did you get in?" Fillmore asked hoarsely.

"Ah, that's the spirit! Ask questions, buy time, my friend.

Since you ask, the Raddle's holdings were recently purchased

by our interests and we set her up here after the death of Mrs.

Bardell. She was instructed to inform us if anyone of your

description and peculiar appurtenances"—he indicated the

umbrella—"should appear to Dr. Sacker. I presume that you

are an agent of Holmes, after all, in which case the dear boy

is grown uncommon careless."

"I thought you'd drowned," Fillmore accused sullenly.

"Sorry for the disappointment. But be assured, sir, I hold

no grudge for your maneuver. It was cleverly executed. But I

am no mean swimmer. And as for tracking you down again,

our system of surveillance is so thorough that you would have

been found out in any event within a mere matter of hours. I

confess, though, 1 did suspect this is where you would proba-

bly go. The only thing that at all bothered me was the

possibility that the umbrella might function once more. But it

does not appear to be in any hurry to remove you from this

unlucky world, does it?"

"One must finish a sequence," Fillmore grumbled.

"1 beg your pardon?"

The scholar briefly explained me necessity of participating

in some basic block of action correspondent to the base

literary form of the cosmos in which one was deposited by

the parasol.

Persano nodded. "I see. That explains why the Professor

has not yet returned. But what a deuced unpleasant condition!

Imagine, for instance, ending up in Stoker's Hungaria and

having no other way out but to combat Count Dracula. A

horror, this umbrella, if one were carried by it into a world of

night."

"Yes." Fillmore observed, stalling for time, "but no one

who knows how it works would deliberately choose such a

place."

74 Marvin Kaye

"Well, no matter," Persano said, extinguishing his cigar,

"die time has come to terminate this disagreeable matter.

You will give me the umbrella.'*

"1 will not!"

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Weariness etched lines on Persano's face as he contem-

plated a struggle. "Come, come, man. bow to the inevitable.

You cannot escape, and you know it perfectly well. Moran

has a bead drawn on the front of the house, and there are

thugs in front and back." He consulted a pocket watch. "It

lacks two or three minutes of midnight. My men have been

told to wait until twelve. If I have not returned by then with

me umbrella, they are to forcibly enter and destroy you on

sight. I'm afraid they would be rather messy about it."

Persano rose. picked up his cane, which had been resting

on the floor, and withdrew the sword from its innermost

depths. "Permit me lo dispatch you swiftly and mercifully,

white there is still time. It is the least I can do for so

innovative and tenacious an opponent."

"Have at you, then!" FUlmore shouted, suddenly lofting

the umbrella. Swinging it in both hands, he swept it at

Persano in me manner of an antique broad sword,

Persano appeared rather disappointed in Fillmore as he

dodged the blow. "As a gentleman, I waited until you woke.

Perhaps, after all, I should have slain you in your sleep." He

parried an umbrella-swash with a neat turn of the wrist.

"Didn't you read Sacker's message? I am expert at this. Your

form is barely passable academy, and rusty at that,"

Fillmore, not wasting energy replying, panted and puffed

as he tried to hack Persano to pieces. But the other met each

attack with easy indifference, not deigning to attempt getting

under Fillmore's guard with his own stroke.

When, at last. the scholar collapsed, breathless, back against

the wall, Persano clucked dolefully- "You expend precious

time needlessly. There is but a scant minute ere the clock

chimes twelve, and then there will be tedious butchery. For

the love of order, sir. I entreat you to accept an easy death!"

Fillmore lowered the umbrella. "Well, then," he gasped,

still winded, "I suppose I must recognize the inevitability of

my mortality. But it's hard." He nodded for the stroke that

would end his life.

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 75

Persano reached across the table and, seizing the tawny

port, poured a measure into a wine glass. H& approached

Fillmore, sword in one hand, the glass in the other. He held

out the wine for the professor to take. "Drink this. It contains

a potent sleeping-draught. When the doctor called for Bor-

deaux. The Raddle, following my instructions, brought this

instead. It works quickly. I will withhold the coup de grace

until you slumber."

Fillmore took the wine. The clock began to chime midnight

as he raised the glass to his lips . . .

No/

The instinct for survival was too strong- He tried to dash

the liquor into Persano's eyes, but the villain, half-expecting

me gesture, ducked; the wine spattered his shirt. Persano's

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hand shot out. He grabbed the umbrella and wrenched it

around, but Fillmore desperately resisted.

The two struggled fiercely, silently. But me exertions of

the day were too much for Fillmore and he finally collapsed

beneath the weight and superior strength of the other. Persano,

pulled off balance, toppled onto his opponent, but even as he

did, he jammed his elbow against Fillmore's throat.

"You do believe in [ast-minuie heroics' You can't say 1

didn't try to bring you a painless death."

He stood up, planting a foot hard against Fillmore's chest,

pinioning him- A pounding noise at the street door. The

landlady shot the boll. Coarse voices, the sound of many feet

pounding up the stairs.

"My men," said Persano, mildly regretful. "Farewell."

He poised the sword in the air, ready to plunge it into

Fillmore's throat.

The scholar braced himself. A wave of hatred for Persano

supplanted what fear he might have felt- He clutched the

umbrella, wishing he could wield it one more time. His

dumb brushed against the release catch.

The tip of the sword started down for Fillmore's jugular-

But as it did, something unexpected happened.

The umbrella snapped open with a click.

76 Alarvta Kaye

Chapter Seven

There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the

heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. Slowly the darkness fell,

and as it did, Fillmore felt a strange chill overtake him, and a

lonely feeling.

Of Persano, there was no trace. He'd fallen off somewhere

during the flight of the umbrella, his sword flailing wildly as

he fell, screaming, to whichever earth Fillmore's distracted

imagination dictated.

A dog began to howl in a farmhouse somewhere far down

the road—a long, agonized wailing, as if from fear. The

sound was taken up by another dog, and then another and

another, till, borne on the wind which sighed along the'dark

and lonely mountain road, a cacophony of howling tormented

his ears- In the sound, too, there was a deeper chuckling

menace—that of wolves.

An arch of trees hemmed in the road, which became a kind

of tunnel leading somewhere that he dreaded to contemplate.

But there was no use trying to avoid a sequence, that was one

fact he'd finally learned. The professor trudged on in the

darkness, shivering at the icy air of the heights. The trees

were soon replaced by great frowning rocks on both sides; the

rising wind moaned and whistled through them and it grew

colder and colder still. Fine powdery snow began to fall,

driving against his pinched face, sealing in his eyebrows and

on the rims of his ears.

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The baying of the wolves sounded nearer and nearer. Off a

ways to the left, Fillmore thought he could discern faint

flickering blue flames, ghost-lights that beckoned to him, but

he fearfully ignored them-

How long he trod the awful lightless road, he could not

tell. The rolling clouds obscured the moon and he could not

read the crystal of his watch, nor could he strike a match.

Persano had never returned them.

The path kept ascending, with occasional short downward

respites. Suddenly the road emerged from the rock tunnel and

led across a broad, high expanse into me courtyard of a vast

ruined castle, from whose tall black casements no light shone.

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 77

Against the moonlit sky, Fillmore studied me jagged line of

broken battlements and knew instinctively where he was.

A bit worse than Persano, he mused, approaching the great

main door, old and studded with large iron nails, set in a

projecting arch of massive stone. There was no bell or knocker,

but he had no doubt that soon the tenant would sense his

presence and admit him.

Perhaps it would be better to flee. But he did not relish the

thought of another minute on the freezing road with the

wolves constantly drawing nearer. True, he'd heard them to

be much maligned animals, gentle and shy, but somehow be

found it hard to believe at that moment.

The occupant of the castle was fiercer man wolves, but

Fillmore guessed it was his destiny to meet him, and if so, it

would be better to do so face to face rather than hide and wait

for him to seek Fillmore out.

The matter was settled when he heard a heavy step ap-

proaching behind the door. A gleam of light appeared through

the chinks. Chains rattled, huge bolts clanged back, a key

turned in a seldom-used lock and the rusty metal noisily

protested. But at last, the portal swung wide.

An old man stood there, clean-shaven but for a white

mustache, dressed in black from head to toe- He held an old

silver lamp in his hand; it threw flickering shadows every-

where. He spoke in excellent English, tinged, however, with

the dark coloration of a middle-European accent.

*'I bid you welcome. Enter freely and of your own will."

He did not move. But neither did Fillmore. A frown creased

the old man's brow. He spoke again. "Welcome to my

house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the

happiness you bring!"

A bit better. Fillmore thought, stepping across the thresh-

old. As he did, the host grasped his hand in a cold grip strong

enough to make him wince.

Fillmore started to speak, but the tall nobleman held up his

hand for silence until the bowling of the wolves had died

away.

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"Listen to them," he beamed. "Children of the night!

What music they make!"

Damn Persona! Fillmore swore to himself I'm right! He

78 Marvin Kaye

would have to put such a notion into my head just before the

umbrella opened!

He followed his host upstairs. Enroute, he had to tear a

passage through a gigantic spiderweb.

The tall man smiled, and Fillmore knew what he was about

to say. "The spider—" he began, but the professor finished

it for him.

"—spinning his web for die unwary fly. For the blood is

the life, eh?"

The Count frowned. "How did you know what was in my

mind?''

Fillmore shrugged. "Bit of a fey quality, I fancy."

Some 500 miles distant from the castle is a town, Sestri di

Levante, situated on the Italian Riviera. Near it stands the

Villa Cascana on a high promontory overlooking die irides-

cent blue of the Ligurian Sea.

It was the latter part of a glorious afternoon in spring. The

sun sparkled on the water, dazzling the eye so the place

where the chestnut forest above the villa gave way to pines

could not easily be discerned.

A loggia ran about me pleasant house, and outside a gravel

path threaded past a fountain of Cupid through a riot of

magnolias and roses. In the middle of the garden there sud-

denly appeared a stranger, walking with a cane. He seemed

bewildered-

"1've lost him temporarily," Persano murmured- "But he

must be in this world, and if he is, I'll find him and finish

him at last. Then I'll take the umbrella and go home. Mean-

time, there are far less pleasant places where 1 have might

have ended up."

He gazed about, noting with pleasure the marble fountain

playing merrily nearby. He drank in the salty freshness of the

sea wind and decided it would be a good place to sit and

devise a scheme of action. Persano strolled the gravel-path

and stopped at a bench near the Cupid fountain. He sat down

and lit a cigar with the last match remaining in the pillbox

he'd secured from Fillmore. He tossed away the empty box.

It arced high and landed in the fountain.

Overhead, a bird twitted in the chestnuts. Someone seated

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 79

in the villa—spying Persano and wondering who he was—

hailed the stranger, but the shouted greeting received no

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answer. Persano was staring at the pillbox bobbing on the

surface of thri water. An awful presentiment overtook him,

and the blood drained from his face.

Slowly, reluctantly, step by step, he dragged himself to the

fountain and stared, horrified, at the floating pillbox, which

had landed open, like a miniature boat braving the crests of

the fountain freshet.

A small caterpillar had crawled into the cardboard box and

was scuttling this way and that. It was most unusual in color

and loathsome in appearance: gray-yellow with lumps and

excrescences on its rings, and an opening on one end that

aspirated like a mouth, its feet resembled the claws of a crab.

Persano's eyes bulged as the creature, sensing his presence,

began to crawl out of the box and swim in his direction . . .

"1 admit you are an unusual visitor." said Dracula. "An

interesting fellow, if that is the slang these days- Try some of

the wine. It is very old."

"No thank you," Fillmore demurred, having had his fill of

soporifics in disguise. "I must say that you are an excellent

host. The chicken was excellent, if thirsty."

"Perhaps you would prefer beer?" the vampire asked,

anxious to please.

"If I can open the bottle myself."

Dracula shook his head. "You do me wrong. There are

ancient customs which no host may defy, even if he be—how

do the peasants call it?—nosferatu!''

"Yes, but I seem to recall the case of one Johnathan

Harker—"

"Marker?" Dracula echoed surprised. "How do you know

him? He is at this moment on the way from England to

conduct some business for me."

"And you have no intention of letting him leave here not

undead." Fimnore accused Dracula.

"You wrong me, young sir. When the formula I repeated

below is stated by a host and a nobleman, it dare not be

violated. / will do nothing to prevent Marker's departure."

"Except lock the doors and ring the castle with wolves."

Fillmore countered sarcastically.

Marvin Have

The vampire shrugged. "If I did not lock the doors, the

wolves might get in . . ."

"Weil. at any rate, you can see why I do not trust your

wine."

"Yes," Dracula nodded, "you seem totally cognizant of

my identity, nature and intentions. But knowing all this, why

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would you enter here of your own free will?"

"Well, it's a long story."

Dracula smiled icily. "I have until sun-up."

So Fillmore told the story of the umbrella yet again, omit-

ting only the references to Mrs. Bardell's cut throat and the

near-skewering of his own jugular by Persano . - . details that

he was afraid might disagreeably excite the Count.

"Hah! Can such things be?" the vampire mused once the

tale was done. His piercing eyes shone with an unholy crim-

son light. "Long ago, what arcane researches I carried on,

seeking things beyond the mundane world in which I felt

trapped. And the things I discovered only proved a far worse

incarceration for me. But this—this umbrella—what opportu-

nity ties within its mystic compass!"

Fillmore began to grow uneasy. He'd spun out the history

till close to daybreak, figuring that the coming dawn would

enable him to escape while Dracula slept. Even more to the

point, he mentally punned, he might be able to rid the place

of the vampire with a stroke of the point of his umbrella and,

in such wise, complete the sequence and get out of this world

of horror into which his fight with Persano had unluckily

plunged him.

It escaped him until that moment that Dracula might look

on the parasol as a far greater tool for spreading the brood of

the devil than the original plan he'd devised to purchase

Carfax Abbey from John Harker and move to England and its

teeming millions. But how could London compare with the

available necks of countless billions in worlds without number?

Fitlmore slole a nervous glance towards the casement,

hoping that dawn might shine through it soon. By no means

could he allow the umbrella to fall into Dracula's hands!

"The night is nearly ended," the caped nobleman said,

rising. His eyes fixed Fillmore's in a hypnotic stare. "I must

sleep the day- Let me show you your room."

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 81

"The octagonal one, ! know. Never mind, I'll find it."

Fillmore strode across the large chamber and opened the door

to his bedchamber. It/was just where Stoker said it would be.

At the door, he paused and fixed the vampire with a stem

gaze that he hoped would command respect.

"I depend on you. Count, to be as good as your word. A

vampire may lie—but a nobleman, never."

"We understand each other perfectly well," Dracula smiled,

bowing his head gravely. "I have given my word, and 1 will

repeal it. No harm to you shall come from me."

And he strode from the room, slamming the door shut

behind him. Fillmore hurried to the portal and tried it, but it

was securely locked.

The professor was worried. Dracula could not be trusted,

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and yet he had given his word as a patrician. Could he go

against it, evil though he was? Fitlmore did not think so.

He walked back to his room and stretched out on the bed,

exhausted from the perils of the umbrella's flight and the

terrible walk through the Carpathian forest. He began to sink

into a delicious lassitude.

No, no, no, no, no, no! his mind repeated over and over, a

still, small voice protesting a fact out of joint, a snag in logic,

an unforeseen menace.

"/ have given my word, and I will repeat it. No harm to

you shall come from me."

Dracula did not say Fillmore would be unharmed. He said

he would not personally hurt him.

Fillmore tried to get up, but his limbs were leaden. Above

him, not far away, a dancing swirl of dustmotes pirouetted in

a beam of moonlight. In the middle of the mist shone two

mocking golden eyes, tike those of an animal.

He tried to groan, but no sound emerged. He had forgotten

Dracula's three undead mistresses who lived (?) with him in

the vaults beneath the castle.

The fairest and most favored of the three was in the

coffin-shaped room with Fillmore, baring her teeth for the

inevitable bite-

He fell into a merciful swoon.

Marvin Kaye

Chapter Eight

Some days, it is nigh onto impossible to get out of bed. The

body, fitted with a not altogether unpleasant lassitude, refuses

lo function. Too weak to protest, the mind feebly struggles to

rouse the limbs, but to no avail, so weak is the will, so

sapped the corporeal being. Easier to capitulate, to drift in

mat half-state between slumber and waking.

And so Fillmore remained in a condition of wan enthrall-

ment for the greater part of the day. Only as the autumnal

gloom began to draw in, signaling the approach of evening,

did his torpid brain make an effort lo gather in those wander-

ing fantasies which possessed it and pack them away. Very

deep within, clawing at the prison-door of consciousness, a

voice urged him to wake.

He pushed himself up unwillingly and sat on the edge of

the soft bed, head dangling, trying to recollect where he was.

A wolf greeted the oncoming sunset.

With a start, he sat bolt upright, remembering everything.

He peered across the room with nervous dread, but to his

surprise, the umbrella was still there. Getting to his feet,

swaying from unexpected weakness, he lurched over to it and

tried pressing the catch, but as he anticipated, it did not open.

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He turned this way and that, seeking a mirror, finally recall-

ing that Dracula did not keep any such reminders of his

vampiric status about the house.

When Fillmore put a hand to his neck, he knew he needed

no glass to confirm what his fingers felt. He winced at the

two tender spots, the tiny punctures that still felt tacky. -

Luckily, according to Bram Stoker, vampires rarely finish

off a victim in one night. But Fillmore felt so enervated that

he very much doubted whether he could survive a second

attack -

And the sun was going down-

He ran to the large casement in the dining room and stared

out. The castle was built on a rocky precipice. The valley,

spread out far below and threaded with raging torrents, was

such a great distance straight down that if he fell, only a

parachute could save him.

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 83

But how did Harker escape in Dracula? He emulated the

Count, creeping from rugged stone to stone, crawling down

the side of the castle iike a great lizard to the courtyard

underneath. But this drop was sheer, with no apparent foot-

holds or niches for the hands to grasp. Nor was there a

courtyard; only cruel and jagged rocks . . .

He ran to his room and pushed open the narrow aperture.

The same vista—exit was impossible from either window!

Then how did Harker scale the wails? He beat his fists

against his temples, thinking, thinking. He remembered that

in the novel, the solicitor walked out the dining-room door

into the corridor and explored the vast pile. Somewhere on

the castle's south side must be the window that permitted

access to the lower floors and the courtyard.

But the door to the corridor was locked.

Fillmore tore about like a madman, trying the door at the

end opposite the octagonal room, but it. too, was locked- He

set his back to the main door and bumped it, but the only

thing that gave was his back.

Darting to the window a second time, he watched in fasci-

nated horror as the sun dipped beneath the ridges and crests

of the mountains. Only a thin slice of the golden rim re-

mained on the horizon.

Figure another five or six minutes' worth of sunlight, and

perhaps an equal time of afterlight. Another minute for the

vampires to rouse themselves and come up here. Then, at the

most generous estimate I have an unlucky thirteen minutes to—

"Well, say it'" he snapped at himself, aloud. "To save

myself from a fate worse than death. Literally."

The teacher sat upon the edge of his bed and applied his

mind to his predicament. Panic would accomplish nothing, he

realized, so he might as well employ the residue of time in

seeing whether there were any way out at all.

A chorus of wolves shivered on the rising wind.

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He shuddered.

"There's enough of that, damn it*" he told himself. "It's

about time I slopped behaving like a victim everywhere I fly

to. Let's see now: can't get out the doors, windows are too

high up. no way to safety climb down the wall. I'd probably

dash my brains out, anyway, even if I tried it."

Marvin Kaye

And then a new and startling notion flashed into his mind.

He jumped to his feet and nervously paced the room.

"No time to follow it all up," he declaimed aloud like the

actor he once aspired to be, "but some of it must be scanned!

Is mere an alternative reason? Quick—work out a chain of

logic!"

He ticked off propositions on his fingertips. "One: a se-

quence has to be completed wherever one goes with me

umbrella. Two: 1 am no longer in the Holmesian rough-draft

world. Hence: I completed the sequence there. But how?

Some of the literary works on which that place is based were

unfinished in my original earth. Could it be that my adventure

with Persano stopped just because it isn't over?!"

Fillmore shook his head. "Too many paradoxes. The Pick-

wick Papers was completed by Dickens, and that was—

is—a part of Persano's wortd. So events cannot be dictated

by literature that I know, at least not entirely. Which is

confusing, but forget philosophy for now; ask Hotmes, if I

live to meet him!*' He put the issue behind him with a

flourish of one hand, a gesture he often used when confront-

ing an adamantly incorrect student. "The vital question now

is—why did the umbrella openT1

Only one answer fit. When Persano aimed his sword at

Fillmore's throat, the scholar's life in that world was, for all

practical purposes, terminated. Therefore, the sequence had

to be at an end, and the umbrella finally worked.

Therefore, in a world of horror, where there are victims

galore, all one must do to escape is . . . die.

He certainly hoped he was right.

Picking up the umbrella. Fillmore strode purposefully to

the window and tried opening it. But the rusty latch would

not budge. He spied an immense pewter candelabra, seized it

and hurled the thing forcibly. It bumped the glass and clat-

tered to the floor.

"Hell!" Exasperated, he stuck his face against the window

and saw that it was doubly thick. He also perceived that the

last sliver of sun was gone and the afterlight was fading

swiftly.

Then, from far below in the very bowels of the castle, he

heard a metallic grating noise, followed by an iron thunder-

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THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 85

's'

ous clang, like a great door slammed open. Deperately he

wrestled with one of the Count's chairs. It was incredibly

heavy, and took a tremendous effort of the will for him to loft

it at all, let alone swing it. But swing it he did. and me

window shattered most gratifyingly. The massive piece of

furniture tumbled after the raining shards down. down into

the depths of the valley.

Fillmore scrambled onto the window seat, umbrella in

hand, thumb on the catch. Gazing out at the panoramic vista,

he felt queasy. Heights terrified him. If he was wrong, and

the umbrella did not open, he would be crushed on the rocks and

then—since he had been bitten by the vampire woman—he

might have to join the legions of the undead.

There was the sound of a heavy tread in me corridor

outside. Screwing up his courage, Fillmore forced himself to

look out at the landscape and conquer his fear of falling. He

saw the valley cloaked in shadow, and very far off, the glint

of rushing water, a distant cataract.

The cataract strong then—

"NO!" he admonished himself."No other literature this

time, just Sherlock Holmes!"

—cataract strong then plunges along—

"Sherlock Holmes!"

—striking and raging as if a war waging—

"Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes!"

—its caverns and rocks among—

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!" Fillmore shouted, jumping out the

window.

Behind him, in me room. the doors flung wide. The blond

fiend raced to the window, snarling.

"Gone!" she howled, turning to accuse her mate. "How

did you dare permit this? You might have taken me umbrella

while he slept!"

The Count, entering with a swiri of his cape, coldly re-

plied, "1 pledged my word 1 would not harm him. I may be a

vampire, but 1 am a nobleman first, and a boyar does not

break his word." tn truth. Dracula had realized that transport-

ing fifty boxes of native soil across the dimensions would be

a grueling project. London was quite good enough . . .

The woman told him precisely what she thought of his

86 Marvin Kaye

aristocratic airs. "Your precious blue blood." she snapped

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spitefully, "is tainted with the plasma of the lowest village

peasants."

"And yours isn't?" he sneered, staring haughtily down his

long aquiline nose at her.

"The least you could have done would have been to hide

the thing so I could have supped again!"

"As for that," said Dracula, waving his hand with grand

disdain, "you are already more plump than is seemly."

"Plump'1'." she screamed. "You told me that's the way

you like me best!"

The matter proceeded through a great many more ex-

changes and retorts, but it is perhaps indelicate to dwell at

length on the secrets of patrician domestic life, and so it were

good to draw the present chapter to a close.

Chapter Nine

Fillmore wanted to throw up, but he was too terrified to

move. Below, the ferocious cataract raged. A needle-spritz of

foam slashed up through the curtain of mist created by the

falls, occasionally spattering droplets on his face. The long

sweep of green water whirled and clamored, producing a kind

of half-human shout which boomed out of the abyss with the

spray.

"Miserable damned umbrella!" he grumbled. "I said 'Sher-

lock Holmes' time and again—NOT The Cataract ofLodore'."

The shelf on which the umbrella had deposited him was

barely big enough for his posterior. Fortunately, it (the shelf)

was cut high and deep enough so he could arch his back

against the black stone. There was just enough space to stand

the umbrella upright next to him along the vertical axis of the

niche, but otherwise there was no room to move or turn.

Eventually, he supposed, he would either fall into the chasm

or else figure a way to get down safely.

His feet dangled precariously over the edge. Below them,

the cliff bellied out so he could not see straight down. But to

the right, he spied a footpath that looked as if it ought to pass

directly beneath his perch. Yet to the left there was a sheer

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 87

drop into the torrent, so he could not be certain that the path

extended all the way to the point just south of where he sat. If

it did, he might be able to slide down the cliffside and land

on the narrow walkway. It looked about a yard wide, surely

large enough to break the momentum of his fall.

But what if the path slopped before it got to where he was

sitting? Then he'd plummet right down die mountain.

Well. sooner or later I'll have to risk it. Unless—

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Unless the umbrella had whisked him back to his own

world, where Southey's cataract was situated. Sequence rules

did not seem to apply to one's home cosmos (or else the

bumbershoot could not have operated in the first place, or so

Fillmore reasoned).

He pushed the button halfheartedly. Nothing happened. He

was still stuck on the meager rocky mantel.

He glanced above him and saw, too far to reach, a bigger

niche, covered with soft green moss. He looked down and

was seized by vertigo. He shut his eyes and shoved his back

against the eroded cliff wall, wishing he could sink inside it.

"Get hold of yourself! If you have to drop, you'd better be

in full control of your muscles!" he told himself, wishing that

he could somehow find a way to shut off the sound of the

cascading flood—a strange, melancholy noise like lost souls

lamenting in the deep recess of the pool into which the

churning streams poured.

He tried to reestablish his equilibrium by turning his atten-

tion to the expanse of blue sky above him. The weather was

mild and there was a pleasant breeze that he wished, all the

same, would stop tugging and flapping his sleeve like insis-

tent child-fingers begging him to come play in the rapids

below- There were few clouds, and none obscured the sun,

which shone high and bright.

Gazing nervously into the heavens, squinting to minimize

the glare, Fillmore suddenly opened his eyes wide in surprise.

A fact popped into his head, something he'd read in the

rubric to The Cataract of Lodore in the textbook he used to

teach English Romantic Fiction.

"Tourists who make special jaunts to view me site which

inspired Southey's famous exercise in onomatopoeia are gen-

erally disappointed because—"

Marvin Kaye

Because why? How did the rest of the rubric read?

Before the thought could be brought to mind, Fillmore was

distracted by the sound of approaching footsteps ... a rapid,

yet heavy tread.

He sighed with relief. Maybe it'll be someone who can

kelp me get down from here!

The footsteps neared. Fillmore stared down at the footpath

curving around the mountainside to his right. A long moment

passed, during which the footfalls grew louder, but slowed to

a walk. And then a man rounded the bend and emerged into

the professor's angle of vision-

The newcomer was extremely tall and thin. Clean-shaven,

with a great dome of forehead and eyes sunk deep in his

skull, the stranger was pate and ascetic in cast. Chalk dust

clung to his sleeves and his shoulders were rounded and his"

head protruded forward as if he had spent too much time in

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closet study of abstruse intellectual problems.

Stopping in me middle of the narrow path, he peered with

puckered, angry eyes at a place some steps in front of him.

He spoke in an ironical tone of voice.

"Well, sir," he said. "as you are wont to quote, 'Journeys

end in lovers meeting.' "

For a brief, disoriented second, Fillmore thought he him-

self was being addressed. Then there was a murmur from a

spot directly beneath the ledge where he was dizzily bal-

anced, and he realized that someone had been waiting all the

while right under him, hidden by the bellying rock-swell that

the mountainside described just below his feet.

"I warned you I would never stand in the dock," the tall

man said in a dry, reprimanding voice- "Yet you have perse-

vered in your attempts to bring justice upon my head."

The unseen man murmured a laconic reply.

"In truth," the other continued, "I doubted that you could

so effectively quash the network of crime it took me so long

to build up. But you have outstripped your potential, and I

underestimated you, to my cost." As he spoke, his head was

never still, but moved in a slow oscillating pattern from side

to side, like some cold-blooded reptile. "However, "he went

on, "you have also underestimated me. 1 said if you were

clever enough to bring destruction on me, 1 would do the

same for you. 1 do not make idle threats."

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 89

Another murmur Fillmore could not hear—more protracted

mis time—and then the tall one grimly nodded. "Yes, I will

wail that long. He who stands on the brink of worid's-end

rarely objects to the delay of a second or two before time

stops."

Crossing his arms patiently, he waited silently, staring

fixedly at the person Fillmore could not see.

But by then, of course, the teacher knew the identity of

both antagonists, seen and unseen. With the knowledge came

the recollection of the forgotten detail pertaining to the cata-

ract of Lodore.

"Tounsts who make special jaunts to view the site which

inspired Southey's famous exercise in onomatopoeia," said

the rubric, "are generally disappointed because the falls dry

up by the time they visit in summer. The Lodore falls are best

seen in colder weather.''

The sky and sun and the breeze told Fillmore it must be

late spring. Therefore, the cascading waters below could not

be Lodore.

It had to be Reichenbach Falls, instead.

Reichcnbach Falls . . . scene of the dramatic final meeting

between Sherlock Holmes and his arch enemy. Professor

Moriarty . . . perfectly logical considering that Fillmore si-

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multaneously thought of Hotmes and a waterfall. The um-

brella took him precisely where it had been told.

All the same. he mused grumpily, if might have picked a

less disagreeable ringside seat!

And yet, for all his fearful giddiness, Filtmore felt a bit

like an Olympian looking down on me petty squabbling of

puny mortals. The analogy was furthered by the fact that he

knew both what was taking place and that which was about to

happen.

Right now, he thought, Holmes is writing a farewell mes-

sage to Watson. When he finishes it. he'll put it on top of a

boulder close by and anchor the paper by placing his silver

cigarette case upon it.

Fillmore had read "The Final Problem" several times. It

was a bitter tale, the one in which Arthur Conan Doyle tried

to kill off his famous detective; Fillmore often wondered what

it must have been like to read it when it first appeared in

90 Marvin Kayr

print, not knowing that Holmes would be resurrected ten

years later in "The Adventure of the Empty House." (Fillmore

grinned to himself, thinking of the heresy his mind had

just committed: referring to Conan Doyle as the author of

the Holmes tales. "Are ye mad. man?" his pals at the

local branch of the Baker Street Irregulars would say.

"Watson wrote those factual accounts. Doyle was just the

good Doctor's literary agent!")

Fillmore finally knew what he was going to do: simply

wait until the adventure ran its course. Holmes would finish

the message, rise and walk to the edge of the footpath.

Moriarty, disdaining weaponry, would fling himself upon his

enemy and the pair would stniggle and tussle on the very

edge of the falls. At the last, Holmes' superior knowledge ef

baritsu ("me Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than

once been very useful to me") would win the day and Moriarty

would take the horrible, fatal plunge alone. Then Fillmore

could hail Holmes, who would surely help him to get down.

After that, I'll warn him that Colonel Moran is skulking

about here someplace and—

And?

There was no point in making any other plans just yet. If

Holmes were unable to rescue him from the awful ledge,

there would be no future for J. Adrian (Blah!) Fillmoret

At that moment, Moriarty unfolded his arms.

"If the message is done, sir," he said, "then I presume we

may proceed with this matter?''

A murmur and then footsteps.

He's walking to the end of the path. Now Moriarty will

follow him and suddenly try to push Holmes off balance.

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Moriarly did not move. A mirthless trace of humor tilted

up the corner of his mouth.

Fillmore was suddenly seized by the chill premonition that

something extremely unpleasant was about to take place.

"You surprise me at the last," the evil Professor re-

marked. "Had you expected some gentleman's Code of Honor,

sir? My foolish lieutenant Persano might subscribe to such

nonsense, but then again, he would be better suited physically

to grapple with a man thoroughly skilled in singlestick. And

baritsu."

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 91

"What91." It was the first time Fillmore heard the crisp voice

beneath him.

"Come, come," said Moriarty, drawing a revolver out of

his coat, "I keep files on my enemies, too, you know."

No! This is wrong? Filimore was stunned. This isn't how

the story turns out!

"I am vexed," Moriarty slated. "You have twice underes-

timated me, sir." He raised the pistol and aimed.

Fillmore had no time to wonder whether direct interference

might change the texture of the world he was in—it was

already different. He did not concern himself, either, with the

dangers of subsumption or, for that matter, the more immedi-

ate risk that he might break his neck.

Transferring the umbrella to his right hand, he shoved

himself off the perch with a yell to warn the detective below.

As he descended, he Hailed the umbrella in Moriarty's direction.

The Professor immediately raised his arm and snapped off

a shot at Fillmore, but he was aiming at a moving target and

the bullet ricocheted harmlessly off a boulder. Before he

could fire a second time, Holmes grasped his arm in an iron

grip and instantly afterwards, Fillmore landed on the path in a

heap.

The arch-antagonists struggled violently scant inches from

the end of the walkway. Fillmore did his best to get out from

underfoot, but elbows poked his ribs and feet trod his toes.

He was an integral part of the metee.

The detective grunted. The criminal cursed. They swayed

on the very lip of the precipice. Then Holmes unexpectedly

and slickly slipped out of Moriarty's grip. The movement set

the Professor off balance. With a cry of fear, he flailed, both

hands clawing Ihe air. One touched the grip of the umbrella

and. instinctively, Moriarty clutched at it, wrenching it from

Fillmore's grasp.

Forgetting all danger, Fillmore lurched forward and tried to

get the umbrella back, but Moriarty, uttering one long terri-

fied scream, pitched over backwards into the abyss.

Filimore scrambled on his hands and knees to the edge

and. with Holmes, watched the Napoleon of Crime falling,

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falling, the umbrella wildly waving. He vanished from view

in the scintillating curtain of spray.

For a long while they watched, but they could not discern

any movement in the maelstrom. Still. Fillmore thought he

could hear Moriarty's cry of terror eternally intermingled with

the half-human roar of the falls.

Rousing themselves, they walked down the path a ways.

Then the tall, thin man with the well-remembered face ad-

dressed Fillmore good-humoredly.

"In the past," he chuckled, "I have been skeptical-of the

workings of Providence, but nevermore shall I doubt the

efficacy of a deus ex machina, no matter what guise it

descends in!"

Fillmore would have replied but they were all at once

interrupted by a barrage of rocks from above.

"That would be Colonel Moran," Fillmore remarked. "He's

just about on schedule."

Holmes looked at him curiously but decided to forestall all

questions until after they escaped from the assiduous adminis-

trations of Moriarty's sole surviving lieutenant.

Explication and Epilogue

Late that evening, two men sat drinking ale in a pothouse in

Rosenlaui. For a long while, only one of them spoke, but at

last, he ended his narrative-

"That is certainly the most singular history i have ever

heard," said the other, taller one, signaling to the waiter for ,

more brew. "It is more surprising to me than that awful

business at Baskerville and, at least to you, quite as harrowing."

"And now," said Fillmore, "I suppose you are going to

suggest I consult a specialist in obscure nervous diseases?"

"Not at all, old chap," the lean detective grinned. "There

is an internal cohesion that I should be prompted to trust in,

to begin with. But knowing all that i do about the late

Professor Moriarty, your tale makes considerable sense."

"It does?"

"Moriarty himself prefigured the possibility of a dimensional-

transfer engine in his brilliant paper on The Dynamics of an

Asteroid. Not in so many words, you understand, but the

concept was buried within if one had the comprehension and

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 93

me philosophical tools to prize it forth. The Professor cer-

tainly foresaw the ramifications of his theory, at least in this

interesting—and rather distressing—side-channel of his re-

search. I shudder to think what might have happened had he

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manufactured enough of them to arm his entire army of

villains' Criminal justice in England (perhaps in me entire

cosmos, eventually) would be totally unworkable." Holmes

tapped his fingers against the frosted stein which the waiter

set down before him. "Of course, I suppose it would have

then been up to me to devise a similar engine and make it

available to society at large." He shook his head, smiling

ruefully."! wish you could have held onto it. 1 should have

been most interested in examining it."

"I'm extremely disappointed myself,'* Fillmore said. "I

came here specifically to ask you about the umbrella, and

now it's gone!"

"You wanted to find out how it worked?"

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "I wanted to leam

why it works so strangely."

Holmes laughed. "Oh, you are referring, I suppose, to the

business of its taking you to so-called 'literary' dimensions?"

Fillmore nodded. He had a sudden inkling of what Holmes

was about to say.

"That, my dear Fillmore, is quite elementary! The physics

and mathematics of space strongly imply the coexistence of

many worlds in other dimensions. What are these places like?

Surely, space is so infinite that there must be an objective

reality to planets of every conceivable kind, variances and

patterns mundane and fantastic."

"Yes, yes, but why literary permutations?"

"You have been going about the problem backwards,"

said Holmes. "These places do not exist because people on

your earth dreamed them up. I should say rather the reverse

was more likely."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning me 'fiction' of your prosaic earth must be bor-

rowed, in greater or lesser degree, from notions and concep-

tions that occur across the barriers of the dimensions. Have

you not heard writers (though surely not Watson) protest that

they do not know from what heaven their inspirations de-

Marvin Kaye

scend? Even my good friend the doctor's agent, Conan Doyle,

has sometimes told me that he invents characters in his

historical romances that 'write themselves.' Does this not

suggest that these artists may be unwittingly tapping the

logical premises of other parallel worlds?"

"Then, in my case—" Fillmore began, but Holmes al-

ready knew. ^

"Of course! You are an instructor in literature and drama.

Your mind is evidently psychically attuned to the alternative

earths which the literature of your world has told you of—and

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succeeded in captivating your imagination with,"

Fillmore nodded and sipped his ale. They sal in silence for

a few moments before he spoke again.

"Your theory makes a great deal of sense, and yet—" .

"And yet?'*

"It does not totally explain why it has been necessary for

me to complete a sequence of action in each world 1 visit."

Holmes nodded. "That, 1 should say, is a three-pipe prob-

lem. But it will have to be left for a time when we can

breathe more freely. Colonel Moran will surely pick up our trail

before the night is over. We must proceed swiftly, and you must

stay close by. Since he may have observed your role in the death

of his chief, you may well be marked for extermination."

"1 don't mind at all sticking with you," Fillmore admitted

as they rose from the table, "especially since 1 have no

recourse now but to be subsumed."

"i am not positive that subsumption is an inevitable func-

tion of the umbrella," said Holmes, insisting on taking the

check, "but you are right to the extent that the instrument is

now out of reach of our human resources."

They walked out of the tavern and inhaled the clear, cold

air of evening.

"1 suppose you do not intend to get in touch with Watson,

under the circumstances?"

"No," Holmes shook his head, "it would involve him in

too great a risk. The dear boy is an innocent when it comes to

dissembling. Moran will reason my path lies homeward, but

if I do go to London, there will be danger for all and sundry.

Moran might kidnap Watson to flush me out. No, 1 must stay

away from England for a time."

THE FLIGHT OF THE UMBRELLA 95

"And therefore you will change your name to Sigerson

and—"

"How the devil did you know that?!" Holmes snapped, his

brows beetling. Then his face cleared and he nodded merrily.

"Of course! You have a contemporaneous awareness of cer-

tain likely events in this world. But I pray. sir, if we are to be

travel companions, please refrain from casting yourself too

often in the rote of a Nostradamus. There is. a piquancy to

quotidian unawareness of one's Fate."

Fillmore agreed and they walked on for a time in silence.

Then Holmes suggested that the professor ought to consider

what role he might want to assume in the present world.

"Why, no one knows me here," the other said in some

amazement. "Why should I need to be anyone but myself?"

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"Because you will bring us into rather risky focus during

our travels abroad if you insist on remaining a man without a

background and point of origin. First thing we must do is

purchase a good set of false papers. You will need a well-

worked-out history—"

"And a new name!" Fillmore said suddenly and decisively.

"What on earth for? What's wrong with the one you have?"

"I thoroughly detest it!"

"Yes, yes, but you are apt to slip up if you stray too far

from your original nomenclature. If you must pick a new

name, choose one close enough to the present one so it won't

take long to get used to it."

"Very welt," Fillmore agreed, lapsing into thoughtful silence-

/'// get rid of that hateful middle name and call myself by

my original first one. the one my aunt didn't like because it

belonged to my father. A bitter memory crossed his mind,

and he determined to be done entirely with the painful past. The

hell with the surname, too! I'll go back to the old spelling.

They stumped along for another quarter-hour and at last

Holmes suggested they take shelter m the barn he saw upon

the rise and stay there until the morning came. Fillmore agreed.

A few minutes later, they stretched out in straw and pre-

pared to slumber. A peculiar idea occurred to the scholar at

that moment, and he smiled.

"Something amusing?" Holmes asked.

Fillmore nodded. "It just crossed my mind ... if your

theory is correct and artists in my world really do unwittingly

Marvin Kaye

borrow from the events of alternative earths, then it is possi-

ble that I am already figuring in some work of literature back

where I came from!"

Holmes chuckled- "I do not think 1 am going to dwell on

that thought just now. My poor tired brain has had enough of

metaphysics for one day!" /

With that, the Great Detective said good night and went io

sleep.

His companion lay there for a long time, thinking about the

morrow when he would take on his new name and identity

and start a new life. The professor gazed into me darkness

and pondered the perilous perplexities of the stars.

In his cozy Victorian study, the doctor gazed down on the

new manuscript. The thing was more fun. he thought, if he

could think of the perfect name.

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There was already evidence that his readers enjoyed the

wry device of Watson's "stories-yet-to-be-lold." It was a

clever method of injecting humor into the often grim tales:

lease the readers with promises of outlandish-sounding sto-

ries not yet written up by Watson.

For instance, there was the adventure of the Grice-Pattersons

in the Isle of Uffa (wherever that was!) or the Repulsive Tale of

the Red Leech, or—among the most outrageous—' 'the strange

case of Isadora Persona, the well-known duelist, who was found

stark staring mad with a matchbox in front of him which con-

tained a remarkable worm saidio be unknown to science ..."

But this name now: J. Adrian FUlmore. It didn't have quite

the properly quaint tone he was seeking. It was a trifle stuffy

and stolid. Perhaps it was the middle name ... fry eliminat-

ing it. And what might the initial stand for? John? James?

(He chortled as he thought of the printer's error that caused

Watson's wife to call him James by mistake. What a tizzy of

pseudo-scholastic comment that had provoked!)

James it would be then. he decided finally. And perhaps an

older and quainter spelling of the surname . . .

And Arthur Conan Doyle wrote:

**. . . the incredible mystery of Mr. James Phillimore,

who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella,

was never more seen in this world ..."

TWEEN

byJ. F. Bone

"Leonard," Mr. Ellingsen said, "what on earth" are you

doing to your hair?"

"Nothing," Lenny said uncomfortably. He glared at Mary

Ellen and she looked at him with eyes of greenest innocence.

Damned witch, Lenny thought. What Mr. Ellingsen should

have said was what in hell is happening to your hair. At least

his geography would be more accurate.

"Hmm," Mr. EHingsen said- "For a moment, it looked as

though unseen hands were ruffling it. It was a thoroughly

unpleasant sight. I have learned to endure long hair on young

men, but 1 cannot stand watching it rise and fall like waves

on a windy beach."

The class laughed and Mary Ellen looked smugly virtuous.

"I didn't do anything." Lenny protested.

"Please don't do it again," Mr. Ellingsen said.

The class giggled and Lenny wished that he was miles

away, or thai Mary Ellen was—preferably the latter. Just why

did she have to pick on him? He wished that he had never

dated her last summer. All he'd done was kiss her a couple of

times. And he wouldn't have done that if Sue Campbell

hadn't been in California with her parents. But the way she'd

acted when Sue came back was like they'd been making out

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ever since Sue left.

[t wasn't true. He'd only tried to go further once, and she

froze like an icicle. She turned off just like she'd turned a

switch. He shrugged; If she wanted to be a cold tomato, that

was her bag, but she needn't have acted like she owned him.

He dropped her like a hot potato and went back to Sue almost

J. F. Bone

with relief. That was when she started hanging around and

being obnoxious. But Sue didn't like Mary Ellen, and that

kept the witch away until the end of winter term. Jealousy

was strong medicine against witches, Lenny guessed, but it

wasn't perfect because Sue and Mary Ellen were talking to

each other now.

That wasn't good. Sue was impressionable, and she qe-

lieved that crap Mary Ellen dished out. Mary Ellen wasn't too

truthful when she got going. In fact, she was a goddam liar.

But Sue didn't know that. Mary Ellen sure knew how to get

Sue worked up.

A guy would be safer with a rattlesnake. At least the snake

gave warning before it struck. And its poison was,no worse

than Mary Ellen's—now she was making cold chills run up

and down his spine. They really ran, leaving icy little foot-

prints on his vertebrae. His skin tingled and he shivered

uncontrollably.

Mr. Ellingsen looked at him again: A grimace of annoy-

ance twisted the teacher's pallid face.

Lenny began .to itch. The urge to scratch was almost

uncontrollable.

"Miss Jones." Mr. EHingsen said.

Mary Ellen shifted her eyes to the teacher. The itching

promptly stopped, although the cold spots remained.

"What is there about the back of Leonard's head that

demands such intense scrutiny?" Mr. Hlingsen asked.

Mary Ellen blushed.

Lenny felt a mild satisfaction; it served her right. She

didn't like being the center of attention. Witches never do.

When things began to happen to him a month ago. he'd been

suspicious, and after some reading of books in the school and

public library he had become certain. He was bewitched. It

wasn't something he could talk about, and Acre wasn't much

he could do about it. After all, killing witches was no longer

a public service, especially not when they were as pretty as

Mary EHen Jones. Anyway, she was more an annoyance than

a danger. She couldn't really harm him now that he was

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carrying a clove of garlic in his pocket and wore a cross, and

a St. Christopher medal. And in three weeks he'd be graduat-

ing from dear old John Tyier High and that would be the last

TWEEN 99

of Mary Ellen. He was going to join the Air Force and

volunteer for foreign service.

Mary Ellen eyed Mr. Ellingsen with distaste. He didn't

have to call attention to her. He was typical of all that was

wrong with male high school teachers, Mary Ellen thought

moodily- Possibly he would have turned out better if he had

more body and less brains, but slight, balding, nearsighted

Mr. EHingsen. with his high precise voice and quick birdlike

movements, was a distinct washout. He was almost as bad as

Lenny Stone. She shook her head. No—that wasn't being fair

to Mr. Ellingsen, Lenny was unique. Nobody could be as

bad—as ugly—as inconsiderate—as horrid as Leonard Joseph

Stone. Lord! How she disliked him' It was an emotion that

might welt develop into a first-class hatred. After all, Mr.

Ellingsen was intelligent in a stupid sort of way, which made

him different from Lenny. Still, that hardly compensated for

his defects. He wasn't human—but then what teacher is? And

he was awfully mean to poor Miss Marsden. Everyone knew

Anna Marsden was in love with him, but Mr. Ellingsen never

gave her a break. He didn't sit with her at the faculty table or

walk with her in the hall. He was too wrapped up in Physics

to even see a mere English teacher. He was absolutely insuf-

ferable. Mary Ellen eyed Ellingsen specularively. He just

might lose some of his offensive superiority if one of his

experiments went sour, but nothing ever went wrong with an

Ellingsen demonstration. They always went off like clock-

work and always proved their point. Mary Ellen sighed. She

wished she could do something for Miss Marsden, or do

something to Mr. Ellingsen. Either alternative would be more

pleasant than Just sitting here and listening to things she

didn't want to understand. She settled back into a comfortable

daydream of experiments going wrong, to the complete frus-

tration of Mr. EHingsen. . . .

"The object of this demonstration," Mr. Ellingsen said,

"is to show that the force of gravity is, to all intents and

purposes, a constant when substances of relatively small mass

are involved, and that under these conditions, objects will fall

at the same velocity regardless of their size and weight- Of

course, this is within reasonable limits. I suppose that if you

dealt with something as large as the moon, compared with

100

J..F. Bone

something as small as a steel ball bearing, you would find

dial the moon would reach the earth sooner because it would

attract the earth to it more than the steel ball would, but

insofar as the earth's attraction to the moon is concerned, the

speeds of attraction would be the same, roughly about 16 feet

per second, per second. /

"What I'm going to do is show you that a Ping-Pong ball

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and a steel ball bearing of equal size will fall at the same

speed."

"Wouldn't me steel ball hit me ground a lot sooner if you

dropped them off a real high place like the top of the clock

tower?" Bill Reichart asked. Bill was an honor student and /

always asked questions. Mr. EUingsen liked it because it gave <

him a chance to explain.

"Of course it would, but there are other factors involved."

"Like air resistance?" Lenny asked. y:

"Exactly. The air would slow the Ping-Pong ball. But if

you dropped the two balls through a vacuum they'd fall at the

same speed."

"Exactly the same speed?" Reichart persisted.

"Theoretically no—actually yes. The steel ball should at- ^

tract the earth toward it more than the Ping-Pong ball, but H

their relative masses are so infinitesimatly small as compared ••;

with the mass of the earth that the difference is calculable \

only mathematically and would be expressed in a fractional y

skillionth of a nanosecond. At any rate, mere is no instrument |:

in mis school that can measure the difference." Mr. Ellingsen f

was sidestepping the issue. Actually, he wasn't as sure of H

himself as he had been a few minutes ago. There was some- H

thing about gravity nibbling at the edges of his memory, but ]|

he consoled himself with the thought mat if he didn't know, ^

neither did the members of the class. He thought wryly that ^

this was probably why he was teaching high school rather '^

than working for a Nobel prize in physics. He simply didn't

know enough.

Bill Reichart nodded. "You wouldn't want to bring up ?]

Einstein's math?" he asked, f

"Not now," Ellingsen said. The class looked relieved. ^

"I'll try to explain," he continued, ignoring the collective i

subliminal sigh from the students, "but I'll do it with this

TWEEN 101

apparatus. You see. all I want to show at this time is that

within practical limits the earth's attraction is a constant.

Indeed, it is enough of a constant that Sir Isaac Newton used

it as a base for his theory of gravitation and to develop a

mathematics that is still useful, despite later discoveries.

From a practical viewpoint, we have no need for an analysis

of gravity that is more accurate than Newton's, unless we

become astronomers or astronauts.

"Now let us examine the demonstration apparatus," Mr.

Ellingsen pointed to the two clear plastic tubes behind him

that reached from the floor almost to the high ceiling.

"These tubes contain a reasonably hard vacuum," Mr.

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Ellingsen said. "This will eliminate air resistance. They also

contain two dissimilar objects—a Ping-Pong ball and a steel

ball bearing, and some electronic apparatus to measure time.

The left-hand tube contains the ball bearing and the right-

hand tube contains the Ping-Pong ball. The Ping-Pong ball

has a few iron filings glued to its surface. Both balls arc held

in the top of the tubes by electromagnets and there is a

sensing device in the bottom of each tube. When I touch this

button it will cut the current to the magnets and both balls

will be released simultaneously. Now watch what hap-

pens. ..."

Mr. Ellingsen pushed the button.

The Ping-Pong ball smacked against the bottom of the

right-hand tube but the steel ball remained at the top of its

container. With an exclamation of annoyance Mr. Ellingsen

punched the button a second time. "Apparently the magnet

didn't release," he said uncomfortably. "Well—we'll try

again- It's no trouble to reset the balls. All we have to do is

turn on the current and invert—" His voice stopped and his

eyes bulged. For the steel ball was floating hesitantly down

the inside of the tube—moving an inch at a time, pausing

occasionally as though to determine whether it was safe to

descend another inch. As Mr. Ellingsen peered at the ball, it

shivered coyly and retreated to the top of the tube.

"I think I am going mad!" Mr. Ellingsen muttered. "This

simply cannot happen. It repeals the Law of Gravity."

Mary Ellen giggled. The sound held a triumphant note.

The whole tube quivered, rose slowly from its metallic

102

J. F. Bone

base and floated toward the ceiling. Mr. EHingsen made a

frantic grab for the plastic column—and missed.

The class giggled.

Beads of sweat dotted EHingsen's forehead as he watched

the tube snuggle against the ceiling.

"That's a good trick, sir," Bill Reichart said. "Ho^ do

you do it?''

*'I don't," Mr. EHingsen said unhappily. "It's doing it all

by itself."

"I'll bet you do it with wires." Mary Ellen offered helpfully.

"Why should I?" Mr. Ellingsen said in a harassed voice,

"I don't know. Maybe it's a teaching device."

"I intended to teach you about the Law of Gravity—not to

repeal it," Mr. EHingsen replied pettishly. "Both you and 1

know perfectly well that a thing like this can't happen. It's a

physical impossibility. Yet there it is." He gestured hope-

lessly at the ceiling."It should be down here."

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"But it isn't, sir," Reichart said. "We can all see that.

What makes it stay up there?"

"If I knew, do you think I'd be here?" Mr. Ellingsen said.

"I'd be so busy patenting the process I wouldn't have time to

teach. What you're looking at is antigravity." He looked up

at the tube accusingly. "Come down this instant'" he ordered-

The tube dropped on Mr. EHingsen's head. He went down

as though he had been poleaxed—and mixed with the horri-

fied gasp from the class, Lenny could hear Mary Ellen's

gloating giggle. . . .

Later, when Mr. Hardesty, the vice-principal, tried to estab-

lish the cause of the accident that put Mr. Ellingsen in the

hospital with a mild concussion, he came to the conclusion

that everyone in Physics 3 was stark, raving mad—including

Mr. Ellingsen. The matter was quickly dropped and everyone

tried to forget it. Of course, no one did, and it was a six days'

wonder until it was replaced with something else. In Home

EC class, about a week later and for no reason at ali, plates

and glassware sailed across the room and shattered against the

wall. Mrs. Albritton, the teacher, was put under the doctor's

care, suffering from nervous collapse. Mr. Hardesty told

reporters from the school paper that Mrs. Albritton hadn't

TWEEN 103

been feeling well prior to the incident and that everyone

hoped she would be better soon. There was no truth in either

statement.

The high school baseball team, with worse material man it

had the previous year, when it had a 0-10 season, won games

with depressing regularity, and by lopsided scores. The ball,

no matter who hit it, went for extra bases- And the pitching

was uncanny. The only games the team lost were ones a long

distance from home, and those losses were by almost as

nightmarish scores as the wins near at hand.

"I can't explain it," Mr. Curtis said, as he flexed his Mr.

America muscles, "unless we've got a friendly gremlin. I've

never coached a team tike this- At home we can't do a thing

wrong, and on the road we can't do a thing right. If 1 didn't

know better, I'd swear that there's a sorcerer in the stands

casting spells for our side. 1 saw one pitch last night change

directions twice. I can't figure it." Curtis's muscles were

fine, but his eyes were a bit weak or were playing tricks on

him. At least that was what most people figured after listen-

ing. And after Mr. Hardesty talked to him it was noticeable

that he didn't talk so much about the antics of his baseball

team.

Lenny figured it was Mary Ellen's doing. Mr. Curtis was

wrong only in the matter of sex. It wasn't a sorcerer. It was a

witch. Mary Ellen liked baseball. And she liked to win.

Lenny would have bet his last dime that Mary Ellen had

hexed the entire baseball team as well as being responsible

for everything that went wrong in school . . . and he would

have been right.

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As Mary Ellen saw it. Anna Marsden was well on her way

to becoming an old maid. Even though she was pretty and

intelligent, she was twenty-five, which was on the downhill

side toward thirty. And everyone knew that thirty was an-

cient\ That was mainly because she had to fall in love with

that awful stick of a Mr. Ellingsen. Now Mr. Curtis, the

baseball coach, was much nicer. Not only did he have hair

and muscles, but he had been hanging around the English

class for weeks. He said it was because one of his players

was having trouble with English Comp, but it was obvious

that he liked Miss Marsden. Miss Marsden never gave him a

104

J. F. Bone

break, which was silly. All she could see was that skinny Mr.

ElUngsen—and he never noticed her at all. Miss Marsden

would do a lot better with Mr. Curtis. Now if ...

The scandal erupted two nights later when Mr. EUingsen

broke into Mr. Curtis's apartment and found Miss Marsden.

It was only because Mr. EUingsen was 'fast out of the hospital

that Curtis was still alive. EUingsen had hit him with a bronze

table lamp which should have fractured his skull, but due in

equal parts to the hardness of Curti&'s head and Ellingsen's

lack of strength, all the baseball coach suffered was a split

scalp- EUingsen apparently had cause for his actions, since he

had been married to Anna Marsden for nearly two months.

"Damned homewrecker!" Mr. Eliingsen snapped from his

cell in me city jail. "Casanova! Wife stealer! I hope,he's

crippled for life. But he won't be," he added gloomily. "I hit

the oaf on the head!"

*'I never knew she was married, and she never told me,"

Mr. Curtis explained, "i asked her to come up to my place to

look at my Hogarth engravings-She could have refused if she

wanted to, but she didn't."

"I don't know what happened. 1 can't explain it at all,"

Miss Marsden said wildly. "I love Reggie. I always will. We

were going to keep our marriage a secret this year because of

this silly school board rule about married couples working in

the same school, and earn the down payment on a house.

Everything was wonderful unti! Bill Curtis began chasing

after me. I didn't like it and I wanted to tell him so. but I

couldn't. 1 didn't want to go to his apartment, but when he

asked me, I said yes. I tried to tell him I was married, but the

words wouldn't come- It was tike 1 was sitting outside myself

watching something move me like a puppet. It was horrible!"

Sue Campbell ran off with Bill Reichart and got married,

and their families were squabbling about an annulment. Bill

didn't seem worried about it and Sue had forgotten about

becoming a medical missionary and decided to become a

mother instead. Somehow she developed an appalling domes-

ticity that made Lenny oddly grateful that things turned-out as

they did, although for a couple of days he despised Sue and

hated Bit!- Fortunately it was close enough to graduation that

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the happy couple were assured of getting their degrees. After

TWEEN 105

*'.

^•

"j?'

that it wouldn't matter. Reicbart was going to college and Sue

would go with turn.

The baseball team won the remainder of its games by

lopsided scores, went to the state tournament and was elimi-

nated- Mary Ellen was home in bed with the flu.

Old Mr. Dodds took the wraps off his English History

course the last two weeks before finals and gave his-students

enough details about the Regency Period to arouse a burning

love for scatology in the breasts of students who had never

cared for history at all. He also gave the class a blanket "A."

He was promptly suspended for conduct unbecoming a teacher

and went chortling into retirement.

"I've been wanting to do that for thirty years," he chuck-

led as he made his way through a crowd of admiring students

after his last session with the School Board. "For thirty years

I've taught emasculated pap for children and I finally got

tired of it. This time I gave them the facts."

"What do you intend to do now?" a reporter asked. "The

Board can't allow you to continue teaching. They've got you

labeled as a menace to society. In Socrates' rime they'd have

fed you a hemlock cocktail."

"I couldn't care less," Dodds said. '*It makes no differ-

ence what they do. I'm six months past retirement, so they

can't take away my pension. That was my last class. I stayed

on only because I was asked." Mr. Dodds chuckled. "I

guess I have finally become too old to be worried about

anything. I was tired of distorting the truth. Put it down to

senile dementia if you wish."

"Your diagnosis may be correct," the reporter said, "but I

doubt it."

"You might be right," Dodds replied. "That could have

been the only sane act of my entire Hfe."

And while this was going on and the staid order of John

Tyier High School was being destroyed, things were happen-

ing to Lenny. His shoelaces came untied. His books disap-

peared. Drinks spilled on him. He stumbled and fell in empty

corridors, and suffered embarrassing rips in his trousers.

Things were constantly getting in his way. Accidents ciung to

him as though he was their patron saint. He developed alert-

ness and a sixth sense of impending disaster that enabled him

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J.F.Bone

to dodge things like falling fire axes and flower pots. Lcnny

was certain that Mary Ellen was behind the trouble. He was

always conscious of her presence. And gradually, his feeling

of resentment and persecution turned from fear to a growing

anger. Enough was enough. He had no desire to become a

statistic, but he was damned if he'd spend the rest of <he

school year looking over his shoulder or listening for things

that went bump in the dark. He was damned if he was going

to duck every time a bird flew over his head. He'd see Mary

Ellen alone and settle this once and for all.

It took two days to comer her in a deserted corridor.

"I've taken all I'm going to," Lenny told her fiercely.

"Now get off my back and stay off."

"You just think you have, Lenny Stone," Mary .Ellen

replied. "1 haven't even started on you!" Her eyes widened

and her slim body tensed. "You're going to regret the day

you jilted me!"

"I never—" Lcnny began.

"Don't lie! You kissed me last summer, and then went

right over to Sue Campbell."

"Good grief—did you think I me&nt anything? That was

just common courtesy. You giris expect to be kissed. I've

known that from junior high."

"No boy ever kissed me before. You lied to me and you'll

pay for it."

"The way you're overreacting, a guy would think we made

out," Lenny said. "I wouldn't touch you with tongs- You're

a weirdo of the worst kind. And if you're worrying about me

kissing you—don't. It won't happen again. Just lay off, that's

all 1 ask. I don't want any part of you, anytime. Get out of

my life and stay out of it. I don't give a damn what you do to

anyone else, even though I know you're responsible for

everything that's wrong around here. I don't know how you

do it. but so help me, if you try to put the whammy on me

again I'll—"

"You'll what?"

"1 don't know—but it'll be something drastic." '

Mary's body tensed and Lenny felt an overwhelming weight

settle on his shoulders. His knees buckled under the strain

and his body sagged as it was forced toward the floor. "I'd

TWEEN 107

love to see you crawl!" Mary Ellen gritted. "You snake!"—

and he was a snake, complete with skin and scales. He

wanted to slither away from here. An empty high school

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corridor was no place for a snake. He shivered and straight-

ened. This was wrong! He wasn't a snake; he was a man!

Sweat poured from his face as he forced his sagging body

erect, hands clawing at the air for support. One hand struck

Mary Ellen's shoulder, and as it did, a sharp gasp came from

the girl. The weight on his back was gone, his scales van-

ished. Volition rushed back to his muscles—and Mary Ellen

writhed on her back on the corridor floor looking up at him

with hate-filled eyes. "You pushed me!" she gasped. "You

knocked me down!"

"I told you I'd do something if you tried any more fancy

tricks,'* Lenny said heavily. "So long Mary—see you around."

He turned from her and walked away, slowly at first. Then he

began to run. He skidded around a comer and disappeared.

Mary Ellen rose to her feet. Rage radiated from her. He

had made a fool of her again. The window beside her exploded

in a burst of flying glass. Two girls coming down the corridor

were slammed against the wall. Mary stood in the center of

a whirlpool of fury- The floor heaved, a crack appeared in

the ceiling, chunks of plaster fell, and a rain of fine gray

dust drifted down in crazy patterns through the tortured air.

Mary gasped at the ruin surrounding her. Was she doing

this? The thought that Lenny might be right crossed her mind,

followed by a wave of terror. For if he was right, she'd be

expelled—maybe even sent to jail! But on the heels of her

terror came another thought. If Lenny was right, and she did

have this kind of power, there must be a way of controlling

it—Mary Ellen's lips curled in a peculiar half smile that was

hard and unpleasant. Lenny Stone would whistle a different

tune when she got through with him! Meantime, she'd better

do something about those two girls. They had seen her and

the wreckage that surrounded her, and they would talk. They'd

cackle like hens. She'd make them forget—make them forget

everything! She began walking slowly toward them. . . .

Emily Jones intruded into her husband's martini with the

expertise of nearly two decades of marriage. "John," she

108

J. F. Bone

said, "this can't go on much longer. Mary Ellen's already

damaged the Ellingsens* marriage, got poor Mr. Curtis beat

up. put Mrs. Albritton in the hospital, ruined Mr. Dodd's

reputation, interfered with the lives of Bill Reichart and

Susan Campbell, and made amnesiacs of Ellen Andress and

Tami Johnston." Emily eyed her husband accusingly. "You'^re

her father.*' she said. "Do something! You should have

known she'd be a tween before we were done here."

"You're overreacting," Jones said. "Just what can I do?

Who can do anything with a tween?"

"We should have watched her more closely. It's our fault."

"For heaven's sake, stop acting like the natives. It's not

our fault. Tweens are as old as history- Can't you remember

what you were like?"

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Emily blushed. "I can," she said, "and that's what wor-

ries me."

"Damn it!" Jones said. "It's bad enough living in this

crazy breast-beating society without adopting its attributes. I

figure we have at least another six months. Kids grow up fast

in this environment, but not that fast. We'll be in the Arizona

desert working with the Navaho by June and after that phase

is over we can go home. I suppose living around sexually

mature youngsters fourteen or fifteen years old has some

effect but it'll wear off once we get into a more stable

environment. However, I'll put your data into the matricizer

and run it out."

"What good will that do? What we need is a way to handle

Mary Ellen right now. We aren't going to be able to carry

this bag of worms by ourselves- You know that."

"We're not going to do a thing as long as they don't

suspect her; we're going to keep our hands off. I'm in the

final phase of this study and if I abort it now we'll wind up in

Limbo, or on the backside of the moon, or some other

misbegotten place where we'd be conveniently forgotten.

We'd spend the rest of our lives scratching flea bites and

shaking dust out of our clothing. We simply have to stick it

out."

Emily shook her head. "I think you're wrong, John. There

are three weeks left, and by that time—if she keeps growing—

Mary Ellen can destroy the school. I don't even want to think

TWEEN 109

of what can happen to the graduation ceremony if she comes

to it in as foul a mood as she was in this afternoon. She

uprooted a whole row of petunias along the front walk as she

came in. Didn't leave a speck of earth on the roots and she

never came within three feet of them! I don't think she

noticed the damage that followed her from me bus and no one

was on the street. No, John, we simply must leave."

"We can't. I can't even pack my records in a week."

"Call a moving company."

"Are you mad? One of those people might be intelligent

enough to know what he was packing. Do you want to blow

our cover?"

"I want to get out of here."

"Why? No one has accused us of anything. No one sus-

pects Mary Ellen. We can hold out another two or three

weeks."

"I suppose you want to wait until she kills someone. Do

you want your daughter to be a murderess?"

"She isn't going to kill anyone. She's been raised to

respect life."

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"And how much does mat mean to a tween in the middle

of an emotional storm?"

"Damn it, Emily! I'm not going to blow fifteen years*

work just to keep an adolescent from acting like an idiot!"

"I wasn't thinking of us—or even of Mary Ellen." Emily

said, "1 was thinking of the people around us. They're nice

inoffensive folks, but they don't really understand what chil-

dren can do. They take a dim view of vandalism, mayhem,

and murder, and they have absolutely no experience handling

tweens. If Mary Ellen is discovered as me cause of all this,

they might even try to restrain her."

Jones gulped. He had a mental picture of what might

happen, and it wasn't pleasant. A chilly grue squiggled down

his spine- He shivered, and not entirely from the cold. Once

the plaster stopped falling and the bodies were removed from

the wreckage, his cover would be blown wide open. And

naturally, people would draw the wrong conclusions, and a

century of study and preparation would go down the drain.

The prospect was appalling. "They'd think we were spies," he

said. "They might even think we were a prelude to invasion."

110

J. F. Bone

••Well—aren't we?"

"Not that way. We wart to open trade, not war. We want

10 exchange technology."

"Doesn't it amount to the same thing in the end? We'll

eventually make an economic conquest, and that can be just

as bad as a military one." /

"No one gets killed." (,

"Not directly. But the inferior culture doesn't survive. It

gets replaced. And in the end we conquer as surety as if we

came with bombs and blasters."

John shrugged. "That's not our affair. We have nothing to

do with the economics of empire. We simply collect demo-

graphic and sociopolitical data."

"You're being awfully narrow-minded. Can't you remem-

ber what happened to £nserala? Or won't you think of'what

happened to the primitive societies here when they came into

contact with Europe? The primitive society always dies ex-

cept for a few taboos and inconsequential customs."

Jones sighed. He couldn't forget it even though he tried.

The path of empire was strewn with the corpses of civiliza-

tions and cultures. It was inevitable. One could take some'

comfort in the thought mat nothing could be done to a Class

B culture that was half as bad as the things the culture did to

itself if it developed in the direction of nation-states. This

world had a fairly poor prognosis. Indeed it was a miracle

that it had lasted as long as it had. But there was a hard streak

of self-preservation in its peoples. At least they'd never started

a nuclear war. Somehow despite their mass hysterias, their

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irrationality, their uncontrolled appetites, their overbreeding,

their prides, ideologies, and bigotry, they never took that cata-

strophic final step. it had aroused Imperial curiosity several

decades ago after the first surveys gave the planet a potential

tifespan of about fifty standard years. The world had already

lasted almost a hundred and seemed in no particular haste to

exterminate itself. Yet the inhabitants were to all intents and

purposes a nonsurvival type. They were hardly more than

tweens without psi—children masquerading as adults. And

their continued existence drew the attention of Empire. They

might be useful.

"They need to trade with us," Jones said. "We can edu-

cate them in the ways of peace and self-control."

TWEEN 111

"You don't mention that trade is the lifeblood of our

society," Emily said. "Without it, we'd have died long

ago."

"It gives us a reason for existence," he admitted.

"And increases our power and prestige, and gives our

people places to go and things to do."

"It's not our fault that our ancestors overpopulated our

world."

"I won't argue that. We're stuck with a demographic fact,

and we have learned to live with it, but I don't like thinking

that this beautiful world will become another Lyrane."

"Emily—we need this world. The Council has it on first

priority. Even though I like these people and don't want to

see them hurt, I can't scrap my own loyalties. The survey and

investigation must go on. Without data we can accomplish

nothing."

"They're not going to forgive us if Mary Ellen runs wild."

Emily answered.

Jones shrugged. It was a rotten little problem. "Does she

hate anyone?" he asked. "Or is she behaving in a reasonably

normal tween fashion?"

"1 think she doesn't like Lenny Stone, but mainly she's

peaking and bottoming out emotionally."

"Is Stone that kid who was hanging around most of last

summer? The one whose parents work in the city?"

Emily nodded.

"I can't see why she'd hate him. He's not worth that much

thought."

"She's a tween."

"Poor Lenny. I should warn him. It might be well if he left

town."

"He'd think you were crazy." Emily said.

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"Hey! what's going on here? Are you two plotting some-

thing?" Mary Ellen's voice preceded her into the room. "I

come down for a glass of milk and find you two whispering

over martinis like a pair of spies. What's up?"

Jones looked at his daughter and choked back a reply that

sprang to his lips. She was a very satisfactory tween, leggy,

elf-faced, with eyes of clearest green that were almost too

large. Her bones were good and her body was beginning to

112

j. F. Bone

mature. Odd that he hadn't noticed—but he'd been busy the

last few months. She was tween all right. There was some-

thing fey. alien, and appealing about her, like a Keane paint-

ing come to life. "It's grown-up talk, sprout," he said.

"None of your business."

"We were talking about your future." Emily said. /

"Maybe you ought to let me in on it," Mary Ellen said.

"We will, in due time." Emily said blandly. "This talk

was about college and money and a career—the kind of

background data we have to talk about before we put the

savings account on the line."

Such a magnificent liar, John thought with admiration. The

diplomatic service lost a star performer when Emily married

and went with him on this mission.

"After all, dear, you're our only child and we are con-

cerned about you. The way time passes and the way you kids

grow nowadays it's almost no time before you're adults.

You'll even be able to vote this tali, and chances are you'll

be away from home and in college."

"I don't think I want to go to college."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm sort of tired of school. It's getting

to be a real drag. I think I'd like to get a job, like maybe with

die paper, the U.N. or the Peace Corps."

"You're old enough, but you'd be better off in school."

"As usual, you don't understand," Mary Ellen said. "I

have to get out- It's—you know—a drag. Irrelevant."

"Stop mouthing," John said. "In the first place 1 don't

know, and in the second there's nothing more relevant to a

modem technological society than education."

"You sound like a teacher. Daddy."

"Oh—I won't stop you if you want to get a job. You'll

learn a lot from the expenence. And besides, if you earn

money you can pay board, which will help our budget."

"Mercenary." Mary Ellen said.

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Jones grinned. The conversation was safely sidetracked.

He hoped that neither the strain nor the relief showed in his

face. It had taken a genuine effort to keep from blurting it out

when Mary Ellen had wanted a straight answer badly enough

to push for it. If it hadn't been for Emily, he might have done

TWEEN 113

just that- He thought bitterly that life bad some damnably

unpleasant episodes during its passage- This was going to be

one of them. There was no question that the girl was danger-

He'd have to warn Lenny. . . . And he'd have to be

ous. ... He d nave to warn Lenny. . . . And he d have to be

prepared to brainwash the kid if he wouldn't listen to

reason. . . .

John Jones leaned over the table in the back of McGonigte's

Pizza Parlor and looked at the skinny kid with the shock of

black hair who sal on the base of his spine and eyed a

half-consumed Idiot's Delight pizza and an empty Coke bot-

tle. The boy's face was moody and introspective.

"Are you Lenny Stone?" Jones asked.

"Yeah—that's me."

"I'm Mary Ellen's father."

"I remember you from last summer. And if Mary Ellen's

said anything about me, she's lying."

"It's not that. 1 want to talk with you."

"No way. I don't want anything to do with you—or your

daughter. Anything related to Mary Ellen is bad news."

"I don't care what you want. I must warn you. Your life is

in danger. Mary Ellen is capable of destroying you. I'm

trying to do you a favor."

Lenny shook his head. "Naw—she can't hurt me. All she

can do is hurt my friends."

"That's not very charitable."

"Who said I was charitable? Look, Mr. Jones, I hate her

guts. She pesters me. She broke up my thing with Sue

Campbell. She louses up my classes. The only favor you

could do me would be to move far away and take Mary Ellen

with you."

"I've considered that," Jones said. He would have been

amused if he weren't so worried. Lenny and Emily had the

same solution, and the same objections still applied. He

couldn't move—not now. It was Lenny who'd have to go.

Mary Ellen would murder him! Lenny was a poor innocent

idiot playing with the trigger of a loaded machine gun. "The

only trouble is that I can't move right now. But maybe you

could- I'll pay the expenses."

"No way," Lenny said. "No giri is going to run me out of

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J. F. Bone

town, and besides, my folks wouldn't let me go." He eyed

Jones with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. He felt

drawn to the man. There was none of the strangeness about

him that marked his daughter.

"I wish I could do this easily," Jones said, "but I can't.

Somehow I have to make you understand that my daughter

can kill you, and that she'll probably do just that if you stay

around. She has powers most people don't possess."

"You're telling me? She's a witch." Lenny nodded.. "I've

known that for weeks, but nobody believes me when I tell

them. She hexed Mr. Ellingsen. She whammied the baseball

team. She— "

"She's not a witch. She's perfectly normal."

"Ha!" Lenny eyed Jones speculatively and wondered if

he'd gone too far. Fathers weren't noted for tolerating kids

who bad-mouthed their daughters- But, oddly enough, Mr.

Jones wasn't affected. He might love Mary Ellen, although

Lenny couldn't see why, but the love didn't affect his temper.

"Look, sir." Lenny said, "1 took Mary Ellen out last sum-

mer. 1 kissed her a few times, but we didn't do anything else,

no matter what she says."

"She hasn't said anything except that she hates you. Why

did you stop dating?"

"She got too possessive. Acted like she owned me. I

didn't like it very much, so I dropped her. A week or so later

she chewed me out and told me she hated me."

"When was that?"

"Last September." Lenny shrugged. "She kept telling me

all fail and winter term. Kept saying, 'Just you wail, Lenny

Stone. I'll fix you'' "

Jones shivered. "Get out of town, Lenny. 1 know what I'm

talking about. You haven't got a chance."

"But she can't really hurt me. She's tried."

"She hasn't got her full powers yet," Jones said. "The

best thing you can do is get away while you still can. Get

lost. Vanish. Visit relatives. Don't come back until we're

gone. I'm leaving in June—by the tenth 1*11 be far from here

and so will Mary Ellen- You'd be safe then."

"Hey—you're really worried."

"You damn well know 1 am." Jones stared at Lenny as

TWEEN 115

though he could force his fears and concern into the young

man's mind. The light from the window fell on Lenny's face.

It had a stark quality not normally found in an adolescent.

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Lenny shook his head. "It's my graduation as much as

hers," he said. **I belong there as much as she does. I'm

staying."

Jones sighed. "All right, Lenny, let's do it the hard way."

"What do you mean by that?"

"This." Jones said. His face hardened and Lenny watched

him with mild uneasiness. He was going to gel mad after all.

"Are you mad at me for calling Mary Ellen a witch? Are

you—hey—leggo—you can't—" Lenny's voice ran down

and stopped as he sat with glassy eyes clamped in a fixed

stare on Jones's tense face-

This has to be fast, Jones thought. He had perhaps a

minute before one of Pop McGonigie's teenage customers

was going to notice that Lenny was somewhere on cloud

nine. He marshaled what he thought were the most important

things for Lenny's safety, gave the necessary instructions,

planted the posthypnotic suggestions, and awakened Lenny.

"Goodbye, Lenny, and good luck," he said.

"Sorry, sir, but I couldn't leave anyway. My parents

would object, and I don't have any relatives."

Jones smiled. "Well—you've been warned. I guess that's

alt I can do. . . ."He walked out of the store feeling reason-

ably happy. By tomorrow, Lenny should be a hundred miles

or more from here. . . .

Mary Ellen faced her father across the dinner table. "What

were you talking about with Lenny Stone down at McGon-

igie's?" she asked. "And don't say you weren't because 1

saw you. 1 want to know."

"Now Mary—" Emily protested.

"/ want to know!"

"That's no way to talk to your father."

"I don't care—you can't touch me. I've got something that

makes me bigger than either of you. I've found out all about

it."

"Is the high school still standing?" Jones asked. Sweat

broke out on his forehead. He was conscious of a horrid

compulsion to tell everything. He clenched his teeth. Mary

116

J. F. Bone

had a last arrived at control of her powers. She was strong—as

strong as Emily had been. He was right when he told Lenny

that he couldn't control her—but he hadn't dreamed how

right he was. He'd thought he could deny her. That was his

worst mistake.

Suddenly he was suspended in midair looking down at the/

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tight angry face of his daughter. The thought that she had-

learned a lot in a very short time dominated his brain. He had

a reasonable certainty that he wasn't going to be hurt physi-

cally. even though his position was ridiculous. Adults simply

didn't levitate. That was kid stuff.

"Mary! Put your father down this minute!" Emily ordered.

She couldn't resist the wry thought that she would iove to be in

her daughter's place right now. But of course she wasn't, and

after all, she couldn't have done a thing like this to John-

StiU, he was a stubborn, opinionated, and unreasonable man

at times, and a good shaking would do him a world of good.

"I want to know what he was talking to Lenny about,"

Mary Ellen said, "and I'm not going to let him down till I

do." She smiled a tight, hard, smug tittle smile. "I've found

out what I can do—and how to do it," she said. "I'm maybe

the most powerful person in the world. And you're going to

tell me what I want to know and do what I want you to

do—or—I'll—"

"You'll what?" Lenny asked. He stood in the kitchen door,

looking at the suddenly frozen tableau. There was a solid

thump as Jones's buttocks made contact with the floor, fol-

lowed by three- lesser thumps as heels and head followed the

example of his behind. He scrambled to his feet, his face a

study in anger and embarrassment.

"You!" Mary Ellen screeched at Lenny. "Go away! Get

out of here!"

"Why?"

"Thanks," Jones said. "I'm glad you showed up, but you

should be running for your life."

"Mom said you did a pretty good job for a quickie,"

Lenny said. "You left only a couple of loose ends. But those

were enough. You gave me no motivation that would stand

probing. ! don't know that I toid you, but 1 can't hide

TWEEN 117

anything from Mom. Anyway, it lookes as though 1 came just

in time."

"You did. I'm too old to appreciate being the centrum of a

psi effect."

"I told you to gel out of here." Mary Ellen said, glaring at

Lenny.

"Get lost," Lenny said.

Jones shuddered. In about ten seconds there would be

bloodshed-

"I am going to wring you out and hang you up to dry,"

Mary Ellen said. "I am going to smash you and shred me

pieces. I am going to break you into little bits. I know what I

can do!"

"Big talk," Lenny said. He stood in front of her, his face

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twisted into a mocking gnn. "There's a lot of hot air in you

that ought to be let out," he said. "You're all puffed up.

Your hubris is showing. You need deflating."

Mary Ellen ground her teeth and her face turned livid with

anger.

"Run!" Emily gasped. "You've gone too far! She'll kill

you!"

The air in the room thickened and writhed and became a

gelid something that wasn't air. Forces gathered, poised,

pulsed, and as Mary Ellen paused to focus me effect, Lenny

reached out and touched her. Something snatched Mary El-

len, spun her through the air and bounced her off the floor!

The room shook, the walls creaked, plaster fell, and a dead

calm descended upon the Jones kitchen.

Emily's eyes opened with a mixture of amazement and

realization. Jones grinned, and Mary Ellen looked at Lenny

with hate-filled eyes. "You did it again!" she said. "Damn

you!"

"It's a good thing you have a well-padded behind," Lenny

said. "That was quite a wallop."

"It hurts," Mary Ellen said-

"Maybe it'll teach you not to act stupid," Lenny said. "I

told your dad that you couldn't hurt me. You can't. You and

I—we're complements. We cancel out. You're a psi positive.

I'm negative. It's a defense mechanism our race has had from

the beginning. We'd never have survived if a bunch of nutty

118

J. F. Bone

tweens could damage each other and everyone else because

they had no self-control. Of course, psi effects were useful to

discourage predators and other big terrifying things. But ex-

cept for telepathy they're no good to help the race become

civilized When you can't lie you've gotta be honest. But

psychokinetics such as you have are no good for anything

nowadays."

"What are you talking about? I don't get it."

"Don't worry, you will as soon as your mom gets through

talking to you. My mom told me about it before she sent me/

over here. And 1 guess it's a good thing she did You were"-

making an idiot out of yourself and you might have done

something real bad. You can't help being a tween any more

than 1 can—it's part of growing up. But you can help being

stupid."

Mary Ellen got slowly to her feet. It dawned on her that

she was abysmally ignorant, and from the expressions on her

parents' faces she realized that she was the only one who

was- Her parents knew exactly what Lenny was saying. It

wasn't fair. she thought. And from the relaxed smile on her

father's face she was certain that whatever had happened, it

was something that took a monkey off his back. The thought

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was ambivalent.

"Just keep a hand on her, Lenny," Jones said. "Emily's

bound to have her bracelets around somewhere. She never

throws anything away." Jones sighed with relief. tk! suppose

! should have guessed. You practically toid me down at

McGonigle's. but I wasn't thinking very well. I had a mental

picture of you on a marble slab.''

"Don't worry about the bracelets," Lenny said. "Mom

gave me hers- She figured you might need them." He reached

into his jacket pocket and took out a plain gold bracelet.

There wasn't anything unusual about it except that it locked \ f-

with a final-sounding click when he closed it around Mary

Ellen's wrist. "I'm wearing the mate to it." Lenny said,

pushing back the left sleeve of his jacket to show an identical

bracelet around his lean wnst. "She can't do anything now.

As long as I'm around, she's neutralized."

"It's a miracle!" Emily said. "To think that there was a

complementary—why me odds against it are in the millions!"

TWEEN 119

"Not quite." Lenny said. "You see. Mrs. Jones, my folks

were transferred from Chicago because my psych profile and

Mary Ellen's were almost identical. The—the Council?" He

paused and Jones nodded."The Council," Lenny continued.

"thought Mary Ellen would go tween earlier on this world

than on Lyrane— something to do with the kind of sunlight

and the shortness of the years. Since my pattern fitted hers to

four decimal points, they figured 1 was almost certainly com-

plementary, so they sent my parents here. I guess you have a

higher research priority than Dad. Anyway. [ don't know

much about these things."

"1 expect we should have told Mary Ellen." Emily said.

"You should have," Lenny said. "Tweens aren't really

stupid or uncooperative, we're merely young."

"Have you learned the standing rules?" Jones asked.

"No, but Mom said that was why we never got in touch.

We were ready if needed, but we weren't supposed to contact

you. That was why she broke me off with Mary Ellen last

summer. I kinda liked her. but Mom brainwashed it out of

me. It might have been better if she hadn't. Besides, she

thinks you're crazy to bring a girl here."

"Mary Ellen was born here," Emily said.

"You're going to stay with us, of course," Jones said.

"Naturally. Your assignment's about over and Mom wants

me to go home for advanced training. 1 think I'd like to be a

psychologician, and you can't get mat sort of education on

this world. My folks say it's all right if I go with you to

Arizona. They'll both be interested in financial operations

this summer. And when you're done 1 can go home with

you."

"Good!" Emily said.

Mary Ellen shook her head. "I won't stand for this," she

said. "If Lenny conies into this house, I'm leaving!"

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"You're not going anywhere," Lenny said, "or doing

anything except graduate from dear old John Tyier High.

After that, you and I and your parents are going to take a long

trip to a place called Lyrane. And when the people there get

through with us. we'll be adults. And maybe then 1 won't

look so much like a louse to you, and you won't look so

much like a witch to me."

120

J. F. Bone

"Mom!"—do something!"

Emily shrugged. Her pleasant face wore a right Gioconda

smile, half loving, half cruel. Looking at her, Jones won-

dered if the Mona Lisa had been a Lyranian- It was hardly

possible, but there was more than a passing resemblance.

"Dear," Emily said, "I can't do a thing about it. You'll

simply have to grow up and become decently inhuman."

THE BOY WHO BROUGHT LOVE

by Edward D. Hoch

On Crucis Two, the second planet of the sun Alpha Crucis,

men still talk of the boy Serov. Some say he possessed magic

powers, while others claim his only power was the ability to

speak to the people and to lead them. Whatever the truth, it

was Serov who caused the downfall of the evil King Hapan.

And he did it with a gift of love.

It had been a century of troubles for the people of Crucis

Two, when solar storms buffeted the planet and space pirates

from other worlds landed by night to kill and bum. Such

conditions had caused the rise of the great King Hapan, and

,j^ the fact that he was an evil man was overlooked in the

^ struggle for survival. Hapan ruled with an iron fist, crushing

?; the space pirates and even calming the solar storms with the

^ aid of great reflecting mirrors. But in the process he doomed

|? many of his own people, many of the loyal citizens of Crucis

Two.

It was in such a time that the boy Serov was first seen,

wandering with the other orphans among the endless desert

camps where those without families lingered and often died.

He was no more than ten or eleven years old, and the clothes

hung loosely from his frail body. But when he spoke, the

older men and women listened.

"Some say he is a wizard," his advisers told Hapan- "He

talks in words too wise for one so young."

Hapan, whose title was Ruler of the Suns, glowered at

those around him. "You tell me that I can defeat the space

pirates and lame the sun itself and yet a ten-year-old boy

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Edward D. Hoch

122

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can upset .my people with his talk? What does he tell

them?"

"He speaks of freedom and beauty." they said.

Hapan was an old man at that time, tired and unwell. But

be still ruled his people with unyielding force, and he was not

ready to see his power diminished by the words of a mere

boy. "Arrest him," he ordered. "Bring him to me!"

The boy Serov was seized in the marketplace as he spoke

to the people, and brought before the ruler in chains. "Well,"

King Hapan said, staring down at the boy before him. "You

have given me a great deal of trouble in recent days."

The boy lifted his chained hands. "I come in peace. I am

no wizard. 1 only speak to the people of love and beauty!"

"You spread uncertainty and distrust. You spread the germs

of rebellion where before there dwelt only the healthy seeds

of loyalty. I have ruled here many years on Crucis Two, and

you do not win my kingdom so easily."

"I bring only love," the boy insisted. "Do you fear that?"

Hapan did not fear love, and yet as he stared down at the

face of me chained, boy, he knew there was a danger here.

This was not an ordinary boy to be won over with trips to the

space zoo or the hologram theater. The face of Serov held

kindness and love, but it held something else too. Perhaps it

held a vision of all the forces King Hapan had repressed

during the years of his rule.

"If I had you tortured or killed, would you respond with

love?" he asked.

"Yes." The boy smiled. "Sometimes love can be a pow-

erful weapon. Sometimes love can even destroy."

The king only laughed. "You can destroy me with love?"

"Yes." The boy spread out his chained hands. "1 could

send you a gift of love that would kill as surely as a laser

beam, and yet I think you would die happy."

King Hapan at last grew fearful of this talk, and he ordered

the guards to abandon Serov in the wilderness, where the boy

might wander and finally perish from lack of food.

That was the last anyone saw of the boy for many months,

and Hapan assumed that he had indeed perished. In time me

memory of him passed, and the king began to make prepara-

tions for the annual Festival of Welcome.

THE BOY WHO BROUGHT LOVE 123

For as long as anyone on Crucis Two could remember, the

coming of spring had been the occasion for great rejoicing.

The celebration centered about the Festival of Welcome, at

which all the people of the area were invited to pay their

respects to the king. Hapan would stand al the gate of his

great chrome palace, touching hands with all who came, and

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sometimes the tine would stretch for miles. It was the custom

that he remained at the gate until all had been greeted, and in

earlier, happier days the ruler often stood there through half

the night—until the very last of his subjects had departed for

home. Now he was lucky if a few hundred came to touch his

hand.

So the day of the Festival dawned, sunny and warm, as

were al) spring days on the planet. He walked to the palace

gate and was pleased to see that the line had already formed

to greet him. It seemed longer than last year's line had been,

and his heart was gladdened. Perhaps it was a sign that the

people were accepting the necessary harshness of his rule at

last. He touched the first man's hands and murmured the

traditional words of greeting.

By the time the fifth hour had passed, he knew there would

be more to greet him than in previous years. Some were the

familiar faces of his palace staff, but there were many strang-

ers too. By their dusty garments he could see they had

traveled far to see him this day, and he gave them an extra

word of greeting and a squeeze of the hand.

By evening the hne ahead seemed no shorter, and only the

pleasure of it all kept him from tiring. Word of me event had

spread throughout the kingdom, and an amazing thing was

beginning to happen. Men and women who had never in their

lives come to the Festival of Welcome began now to appear

in the line. Some he even recognized as former enemies, and

he wondered what had brought them to pay tribute to him.

When dawn came, the line at the palace gate was still

nearly a mile long, and through his bleary old eyes Hapan

began to suspect that some of the strangers were coming

through twice. He considered calling a halt to the Festival of

Welcome, but to do such a thing would only be a sign of

weakness and age. He would last for a few more hours, till

124 Edward D. Hoch

noon at least, and certainly by then all would have passed by

him.

But once again, as the line dwindled to only a dozen or so

men, and King Hapan began to dream of sleep, others came

from the countryside. Men and women working on the big

synthetic farms put down their tools to join the line. Noon

passed, and the heat of the day was upon his head.

Hapan licked his parched lips and sent for wine. It re-

freshed him, and soon he returned to the touching of hands.

On the morning of the third day he was barely able to stand,

and still they came. He recognized more of his old enemies,

and wondered why they had joined the line. He saw children

from the space schools, and marveled at what brought them

here. Toward nightfall he had a chair brought to the palace

gate because he could no longer stand.

Yet still they came.

He was weaker on the fourth day, and now he knew with a

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certainty that he must call an end to this madness. Yet they

came on, and he touched them all. Now even his own palace

guards and household joined in the procession, lengthening jt

once again.

On the fifth day, toward noon, he could no longer hold up

his head. He slumped in the chair and would have slept,

except for the persistence of those who touched his hand.

Toward evening on me fifth day he opened his old eyes for

the last time, and he saw before him the familiar face of the

boy Serov, standing now at the head of the line.

"When?" Hapan managed to ask. "When will this all

end?"

And the boy answered, "Never, my king. This line goes

on forever, because it is made up not of your friends but of

your enemies. This is me gift of love I promised you. Love

from your enemies. A love to destroy you.''

And the old king closed his eyes forever, slumping lower

in his chair, and the people praised the boy who had freed

them.

THE VACATION

by Ray Bradbury

It was a day as fresh as grass growing up and clouds going

over and butterflies coming down could make it. It was a day

compounded of silences of bee and flower and ocean and

land, which were not silences at all, but motions, stirs,

flutters, risings, fallings, each in their own time and match-

less rhythm. The land did not move, but moved. The sea

was not still, yet was still. Paradox flowed into paradox,

stillness mixed with stillness, sound with sound. The flowers

vibrated and the bees fell in separate and small showers of

golden rain on the clover. The seas of hill and the seas of

ocean were divided, each from the other's motion, by a

railroad track, empty, compounded of rust and iron marrow,

a track on which, quite obviously, no train had run in many

years. Thirty miles north it swirled on away to farther mists

of distance, thirty miles south it tunneled islands of cloud

shadows that changed their continental positions on the sides

of far mountains as you watched.

Now, suddenly, the railway track began to tremble.

A blackbird, standing on the rail, felt a rhythm grow

faintly, miles away, like a heart beginning to beat.

The blackbird leaped up over the sea.

The rail continued to vibrate softly until at long last around

a curve and along the shore came a small workman's hand-

car, its two-cylinder engine popping and spluttering in the

great silence.

On top of mis small four-wheeled car, on a double-sided

bench facing in two directions and with a little surrey roof

above for shade, sat a man, his wife and their small seven-

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125

126

Ray Bradbury

year-old son. As the handcar traveled through lonely stretch

after lonely stretch, the wind whipped their eyes and blew

their hair. but they did not look back but only ahead. Some-

times they looked eagerly, as a curve unwound itself, some-

times with great sadness, but always watchful, ready for the

next scene.

As they hit a level straightaway, the machine's engine

gasped and stopped abruptly. In the now-crushing silence, it

seemed that the quiet of the earth, sky and sea itself, by its

friction, brought the car to a wheeling halt.

"Out of gas."

The man, sighing, reached for the extra can in the small

storage bin and began to pour it into the tank.

His wife and son sat quietly looking at the sea, listening to

the muted thunder, the whisper, the drawing back of huge

tapestries of sand. gravel, green weed and foam.

"Isn't the sea nice?" said the woman.

"! like it," said the boy.

"Shall we picnic here, while we're at it?"

The man focused binoculars on the green peninsula ahead.

"Might as well. The rails have rusted badly. There's a

break ahead. We may have to wait while I set a few back in

place."

"As many as there are," said the boy, "we'll have picnics!"

The woman tried to smile at this, then turned her grave

attention to the man. "How far have we come today?"

"Not ninety miles." The man still peered through the

glasses, squinting. "I don't like to go farther than that any

one day, anyway. If you rush, there's no time to see. We'll

reach Monterey day after tomorrow, Palo Alto the next day,

if you want."

The woman removed her great shadowing straw hat which

had been tied over her golden hair with a bright yellow

ribbon, and stood perspiring faintly, away from the machine.

They had ridden so steadily on the shuddering rai! car that the

motion was sewn in their bodies. Now. with the stopping,

they felt odd, on the verge of unraveling.

"Let's eat'"

The boy ran with the wicker iunch basket down to the

shore.

THE VACATION 127

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The boy and the woman were already seated by a spread

tablecloth when the mad came down lo them, dressed in his

business suit and vest and tie and hat as if he expected to

meet someone along the way. As he dealt out the sandwiches

and exhumed the pickles from their cool green Mason jars, he

began to loosen his tie and unbutton his vest, always looking

around as if he should be careful and ready to button up

again.

"Are you all alone. Papa?" said the boy, eating.

"Yes."

"No one else, anywhere?"

"No one else."

"Were there people before?"

"Why do you keep asking that? It wasn't that long ago.

Just a few months. You remember?"

"Almost. If 1 try hard, then 1 don't remember at all." The

boy let a handful of sand fall through his fingers. "Were

there as many people as there is sand here on the beach?

What happened to them?"

"I don't know," the man said, and it was true.

They had wakened one morning and the world was empty.

The neighbor's clothesline was still strung with blowing white

wash. cars gleamed in front of other seven-A M cottages, but

there were no farewells, the city did not hum with its mighty

arterial traffics, phones did not alarm themselves, children

did not wail in sunflower wildernesses-

Only the night before he and his wife had been sitting on

the front porch when the evening paper was delivered and,

not even daring to open to the headlines, he had said, "I

wonder when He will get tired of us and just rub us all out?''

"It has gone pretty far," she said. "On and on. We're

such fools, aren't we?"

"Wouldn't it be nice"—he lit his pipe and puffed it—"if

we woke tomorrow and everyone in the world was gone and

everything was starting over?" He sat smoking, the paper

folded in his hand, his head resting back on the chair.

"If you could press a button right now and make it happen,

would you?"

"1 think I would," he said. "Nothing violent. Just have

everyone vanish off the face of the earth. Just leave the land

128

Ray Bradbury

and the sea and the growing things like flowers and grass and

fruit trees. And the animals, of course, let them stay. Every-

thing except man, who hunts when he isn't hungry, eats when

full, and is mean when no one's bothered him."

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"Naturally," she smiled, quietly, "we would be left."

"I'd like that," he mused. "All of time ahead. The longest

summer vacation in history. And us out for the longest picnic-

basket lunch in memory. Just you, me and Jim. No commut-

ing. No keeping up with the Joneses. Not even a car- I'd like

to find another way of traveling, an older way . . . then, a

hamper full of sandwiches, three bottles of pop, pick up

supplies where you need them from empty grocery stores in

empty towns, and summertime forever up ahead ..."

They sat a long while on the porch in silence, the newspaper

folded between them.

At last she spoke.

"Wouldn't we be ionelyT' she said.

So that's how it was the morning of die first day of the new

world. They had awakened to the soft sounds of an earth that

was now no more than a meadow, and the cities of the earth

sinking back into seas of saber grass, marigold, marguerite

and moming-glory. They had taken it with remarkable calm

at first, perhaps because they had not liked the city for so

many years and had had so many friends who were not truly

friends, and had lived a boxed and separate life of their own

within a mechanical hive.

The husband arose and looked out the window and ob-

served very calmly, as if it were a weather condition, "Ev-

eryone's gone . - -" knowing this just by the sounds the city

had ceased to make.

They took their time over breakfast, for the boy was still

asleep, and then the husband sat back and said, "Now I must

plan what to do."

"Do? Why, why you'll go to work. of course."

"You still don't believe it, do you?" he laughed. "That I

won't be rushing off each day at 8:10, that Jim won't go to

school again ever. School's out for all of us! No more

pencils, no more books, no more boss' sassy looks! We're let

THE VACATION 129

out, darling, and we'll never come back to the silly damn dull

routines. Come on!"

And he had walked her through the still and empty city

streets.

"They didn't die," he said. "They just . . . went away."

"What about the other cities?"

He went to an outdoor phone both and dialed Chicago,

then New York, then San Francisco.

Silence. Silence. Silence.

"That's it," he said, replacing the receiver.

"1 feel guilty," she said. "They gone and we here. And

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... I feel happy. Why? I should be unhappy."

"Should you? It's no tragedy. They weren't tortured or

blasted or burned. It went easily and they didn't know. And

now we owe nothing to anyone. Our only responsibility is

being happy. Thirty more years of happiness, wouldn't that

be good?"

"But then we must have more children!"

"To repopulate the world?" He shook his head slowly,

calmly. "No. Let Jim be the last- After he's grown and gone

let the horses and cows and ground squirrels and garden

spiders have the world. They'll get on. And someday some

other species that can combine a natural happiness with a

natural curiosity will build cities that won't even look tike

cities to us, and survive. Right now, lei's go pack a basket,

wake Jim and get going on that long thirty-year summer

vacation. I'll beat you to the house!"

He took a sledge hammer from the small rail car and while he

worked alone for half an hour fixing the rusted rails into

place, the woman and the boy ran aiong the shore. They

came back with dripping shells, a dozen or more, and some

beautiful pink pebbles, and sat and the boy took schooling

from the mother, doing homework on a pad with a pencil for

a time; and then at high noon the man came down. his coat

off, his tie thrown aside, and they drank orange pop, watch-

ing the bubbles surge up, glutting, inside the bottles. It was

quiet. They listened to the sun tune the old iron rails. The

smelt of hot tar on the ties moved about them in the salt

wind, as the husband tapped his atlas map lightly and gently:

130

Ray Bradbury

"We'll go to Sacramento next month, May, then work up

toward Seattle. Should make that by July first. July's a good

month in Washington, then back down as the weather coois,

to Yellowstone, a few miles a day, hunt here, fish there . . ."

The boy, bored, moved away to throw sticks in the sea and

wade out like a dog to retrieve them.

The man went on: "Winter in Tucson, men, part of the

winter, moving toward Florida, up the coast in the spring,

and maybe New York by June. Two years from now, Chi-

cago in the summer. Winter, three years from now, what

about Mexico City? Anywhere me rails lead us, anywhere at

all, and if we come to an old offshoot rail tine we don't know

anything about, what the hell, we'll just take it, go down it to

see where it goes. And some year, by God, we'll boat down

the Mississippi, always wanted to do mat. Enough to last us a

lifetime. And that's just how long I want to take to do it

all . . ."

His voice faded. He started to rumble the map shut, but

before he could move, a bright thing fell through the air and

hit the paper. It rolled off into the sand and made a wet lump.

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His wife glanced at the wet place in the sand and then

swiftly searched his face. His solemn eyes were too bright.

And down one cheek was a track of wetness.

She gasped. She took his hand and held it tight.

He clenched her hand very hard, his eyes shut now, and

slowly he said, with difficulty:

"Wouldn't it be nice if we went to sleep tonight and in the

night, somehow, it all came back. All the foolishness, all the

noise, all the hate, all the terrible things, all me nightmares,

all me wicked people and stupid children, all the mess, all the

smallness, all me confusion, all the hope, all me need, all the

love. Wouldn't it be nice?"

She waited and nodded her head once.

Then both of them started.

For standing between mem. they knew not for how long,

was their son, an empty pop bottle in one hand.

The boy's face was pale. With his free hand he reached out

to touch his father's cheek where the single tear had made its

track.

THE VACATION 131

"You," he said. "Oh, Dad, you. You haven't anyone to

play with, either ..."

The wife started to speak.

The husband moved to take the boy's hand.

The boy jerked back. "Silly! Oh, silly' Silly fools! Oh,

you dumb, dumb!" And, whirling, he rushed down to the

ocean and stood there crying, loudly.

The wife rose to follow, but the husband stopped her.

"No. Let him."

And then they both grew cold and quiet. For the boy,

below on the shore, crying steadily, now was writing on a

piece of paper and stuffing it into the pop bottle and ramming

the tin cap back on and taking the bottle and giving it a great

giitlenng heave up in me air and out into the tidal sea.

What, thought the wife, what did he write on the note?

What's in the bottle?

The bottle moved out in the waves.

The boy stopped crying.

After a long while he walked up the shore to stand looking

at his parents. His face was neither bright nor dark, alive nor

dead, ready nor resigned; it seemed a curious mixture that

simply made do with time, weather and these people. They

looked at him and beyond to the bay where the bottle,

containing the scribbled note, was almost out of sight now.

shining in the waves.

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Did he write what we wanted? thought the woman; did he

write what he heard us just wish, just say?

Or did he write something for only himself? she wondered,

that tomorrow he might wake and find himself alone in an

empty world, no one around, no man, no woman, no father,

no mother, no fool grownups with fool wishes, so he could

trudge up to the railroad tracks and take the handcar motor-

ing, a solitary boy, across the continental wilderness, on

eternal voyages and picnics?

Is that what he wrote in the note?

Which?

She searched his colorless eyes, could not read the answer;

dared not ask.

Gull shadows sailed over and kited their faces with sudden

passing coolness.

132

Ray Bradbury

"Time to go," someone said.

They loaded the wicker basket onto the rail car. The woman

tied her large bonnet securely in place with its yellow ribbon,

they set the boy's pail of shells on the floor boards, then the

husband put on his tie, his vest, his coat, his hat, and they all

sat OD the bench of the car looking out at the sea where the

bottled note was far out, blinking on the horizon.

"Is asking enough?" said the boy. "Does wishing work?"

"Sometimes . . . too well."

•'It depends on what you ask for."

The boy nodded, his eyes faraway.

They looked back at where they had come from, and then

ahead to where they were going.

"Goodbye, place," said the boy, and waved.

The car rolled down the rusty rails. The sound of it dwin-

dled, faded. The man, the woman, the boy dwindled with it

in me distance, among the hills.

After they were gone, the rail trembled faintly for two

minutes and ceased- A flake of rust fell. A flower nodded.

The sea was very loud.

THE ANYTHING BOX

by Zenna Henderson

I suppose it was about the second week of school that I

noticed Sue-lynn particularly. Of course. I'd noticed her name

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before and checked her out automatically for maturity and

ability and probable performance the way most teachers do

with their students during the first weeks of school. She had

checked out mature and capable and no worry as to perform-

ance so I had pigeonholed her—setting aside for the mo-

ment the little nudge that said, '*Too quiet"—with my other

no-worrys until the fluster and flurry of the first days had died

down a little.

I remember my noticing day. I had collapsed into my chair

for a brief respite from guiding hot little hands through the

intricacies of keeping a Crayola within reasonable bounds and

the room was full of the relaxed, happy hum of a pleased

class as they worked away, not realizing that they were

rubbing "blue" into their memories as well as onto their

papers. I was meditating on how individual personalities were

beginning to emerge among the thirty-five or so heteroge-

neous first graders 1 had, when I noticed Sue-lynn—really

noticed her—for the first time.

She had finished her paper—far ahead of the others as

usual—and was silting at her table facing me. She had her

thumbs touching in front of her on the table and her fingers

curving as though they held something between them—

something large enough to keep her fingertips apart and

angular enough to bend her fingers as if for comers. It was

something pleasant that she held—pleasant and precious. You

could tell that by the softness of her hold. She was leaning

133

134 Zenna Henderson

forward a little, her lower ribs pressed against the table, and

she was looking, completely absorbed, at the table between

her hands. Her face was relaxed and happy. Her mouth

curved in a tender half-smile, and as I watched, her tashes

lifted and she looked at me with a warm share-the-pleasure

look. Then her eyes blinked and the shutters came down

inside them. Her hand flicked into the desk and out. She

pressed her thumbs to her forefingers and rubbed them slowly

together. Then she laid one hand over the other on the table

and looked down at them with the air of complete denial and

ignorance children can assume so devastatingly.

The incident caught my fancy and I began to notice Sue-

lynn- As I consciously watched her, 1 saw that she spent most

of her free time staring at the table between her hands, much

too unobtrusively to catch my busy attention. She hurried

through even the fun-est of fun papers and then iost herself in

looking. When Davie pushed her down at recess, and blood

streamed from her knee to her ankle, she took her bandages

and her tear-smudged face to mat comfort she had so readily—if

you'll pardon the expression—at hand, and emerged minutes

later, serene and dry-eyed. I think Davie pushed her down

because of her Looking. I know the day before he had come

up to me, red-faced and squirming.

"Teacher," he blurted. "She Looks'"

"Who looks?" 1 asked absentiy, checking the vocabulary

list in my book, wondering how on earth I'd missed where,

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one of those annoying wh words that throw the children for a

loss.

"Sue-lyrao. She Looks and Looks!"

"At you?" I asked.

"Well—" He rubbed a forefinger below his nose, leaving

a clean streak on his upper lip, accepted the proffered Klee-

nex and put it in his pocket. "She looks at her desk and tells

lies. She says she can see—"

"Can see what?" My curiosity picked up its ears.

"Anything," said Davie. "It's her Anything Box. She can

see anything she wants to."

"Does it hurt you for her to Look?"

"Well," he squirmed. Then he burst out. "She says she

saw me with a dog biting me because I took her pencil—she

THE ANYTHING BOX 135

said." He started a. peli-mell verbal retreat. "She thinks 1

took her pencil. 1 only found—" His eyes dropped. "I'll give

it back."

"i hope so," I smiled- "If you don't want her to took at

you, then don't do things like that."

"Dem girls," he muttered, and clomped back to his seat.

So I think he pushed her down the next day to get back at

her for the dogbite.

Several times after that I wandered to the back of the room,

casually in her vicinity, but always she either saw or fell me

coming and the quick sketch of her hand disposed of the

evidence. Only once I thought I caught a glimmer of

something—but her thumb and forefinger brushed in sunlight,

and it must have been just that.

Children don't retreat for no reason at all, and though Sue-

lynn did not follow any overt pattern of withdrawal, I started

to wonder about her. I watched her on the playground, to see

how she tracked there. That only confused me more.

She had a very regular pattern. When the avalanche of

children first descended at recess, she avalanched along with

them and nothing in the shrieking, running, dodging mass

resolved itself into a withdrawn Sue-lynn. But after ten min-

utes or so, she emerged from the crowd, tousle-haired, rosy-

cheeked, smutched with dust, one shoelace dangling, and

through some alchemy that I coveted for myself, she sud-

denly became untousled, undusty and unsmutched.

And there she was, serene and composed on me narrow

little step at me side of the flight of stairs just where they

disappeared into the base of the pseudo-Corinthian column

that graced Our Door and her cupped hands received what-

ever they received and her absorption in what she saw be-

came so complete that me bell came as a shock every time.

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And each time, before she joined the rush to Our Door, her

hand would sketch a gesture to her pocket, if she had one, or

to the tiny ledge that extended between the hedge and the

building. Apparently she always had to put me Anything Box

away, but never had to go back to get it.

1 was so intrigued by her putting whatever it was on the

ledge that once I actually went over and felt along the gnmy

Zenna Henderson

136

little outset. 1 sheepishly followed my children into the hall,"

wiping the dust from my fingertips, and Sue-lynn's eyes

brimmed amusement at me without her mouth's smiling. Her

hands mischievously squared in front of her and her thumbs

caressed a solidness as the line of children swept into the

room.

I smiled too because she was so pleased with having

outwitted me. This seemed to be such a gay withdrawal that 1

let my worry die down. Better this manifestation than any

number of other ones that I could name.

Someday, perhaps, I'll learn to keep my mouth shut. I

wish I had before that long afternoon when we primary

teachers worked together in a heavy cloud of Ditto fumes, the

acrid smell of India ink, drifting cigarette smoke and the

constant current of chatter, and 1 let Alpha get me started on

what to do with our behavior problems. She was all raunched

up about the usual rowdy loudness of her boys and the eternal

clack of her girls, and I—bless my stupidity—gave her Sue-

lynn as an example of what should be our deepest concern

rather than the outbursts from our active ones.

"You mean she just sits and looks at nothing?" Alpha's

voice grated into her questioning tone.

"Well, I can't see anything," 1 admitted. "But apparently

she can."

"But that's having hallucinations!" Her voice went up a

notch. "I read a book once—"

"Yes." Marlene leaned across the desk to flick ashes in

the ash tray. "So we have heard and heard and heard!"

"Well!" sniffed Alpha. "It's better than never reading a

book."

"We're waiting," Marlene leaked smoke from her nostrils,

"for the day when you read another book. This one must

have been uncommonly long."

"Oh, I don'I know." Alpha's forehead wrinkled with con-

centration. "It was only about—" Then she reddened and

turned her face angrily away from Marlene.

"Apropos of our discussion—" she said pointedly. "It

sounds to me like that child has a deep personality distur-

bance. Maybe even a psychotic—whatever—" Her eyes glis-

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tened faintly as she turned the thought over.

THE ANYTHING BOX 137

"Oh. 1 don't know," I said, surprised into echoing her

words at my sudden need to defend Sue-lynn. "There's

something about her. She doesn't have that apprehensive,

hunched-shoulder, don't-hit-ime-again air about her that so

many withdrawn children have." And I thought achingly of

one of mine from last year that Alpha had now and was

verbally bludgeoning back into silence after all my work with

him. "She seems to have a happy, adjusted personality, only

with this odd little—plus."

"Well, I'd be worried if she were mine," said Alpha.

"I'm glad all my kids are so normal." She sighed compla-

cently- "I guess I really haven't anything to kick about. I

seldom ever have problem children except wigglers and yakkers,

and a holler and a smack can straighten them out."

Marlene caught my eye mockingly, tallying Alpha's class

with me, and 1 turned away with a sigh. To be so happy—

well, I suppose ignorance does help.

"You'd better do something about that girl," Alpha shrilled

as she left the room. "She'll probably get worse and worse as

time goes on. Deteriorating, I think the book said."

I had known Alpha a long time and I thought I knew how

much of her talk to discount, but I began to worry about

Sue-lynn. Maybe this was a disturbance that was more funda-

mental than the usual run of the mill that I had met up with.

Maybe a child can smile a soft, contented smile and still have

little maggots of madness flourishing somewhere inside.

Or, by gorry! I said to myself defiantly, maybe she does

have an Anything Box. Maybe she is looking at something

precious. Who am I to say no to anything like that?

An Anything Box! What could you see in an Anything

Box? Heart's desire? I felt my own heart lurch—just a little—

the next time Sue-lynn's hands curved. I breathed deeply to

hold me in my chair. If it was her Anything Box, I wouldn't

be able to see my heart's desire in it. Or would I? I propped

my cheek up on my hand and doodled aimlessly on my time

schedule sheet. How on earth, I wondered—not for the first

time—do I manage to get myself off on these tangents?

Then I felt a small presence at my elbow and turned to

meet Sue-lynn's wide eyes.

"Teacher?" The word was hardly more than a breath.

Zenna Henderson

138

"Yes?" I could tell that for some reason Sue-lynn was

loving me dearly at the moment. Maybe because her group

had gone into new books that morning. Maybe because I had

noticed her new dress, the ruffles of which made her feel very

feminine and lovable, or maybe just because the late autumn

sun lay so golden across her desk. Anyway, she was loving

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me to overflowing, and since, unlike most of the children,

she had no casual hugs or easy moist kisses, she was bringing

her love to me in her encompassing hands.

"See my box. Teacher? It's my Anything Box."

"Oh, my!" 1 said. "May 1 hold it?"

After all, I have held—tenderly or apprehensively or

bravely—tiger magic, live rattlesnakes, dragon's teeth, poor

little dead butterflies and two ears and a nose that dropped off

Sojie one cold morning—none of which I could see any more

than I could the Anything Box. But I took the squareness

from her carefully, my tenderness showing in my fingers and

my face.

And I received weight and substance and actuality!

Almost I let it. slip out of my surprised fingers, but Sue-

lynn's apprehensive breath helped me catch it and I curved

my fingers around the precious warmness and looked down,

down, past a faint shimmering, down into Sue-lynn's Any-

thing Box-

/ was running barefoot through the whispering grass. The

swirl of my skirts caught the daisies as I rounded the snarled

apple tree at the corner. The warm wind lay along each of my

cheeks and chuckled in my ears. My heart outstripped my

flying feet and melted with a rush of delight into warmness as

his arms—

1 closed my eyes and swallowed hard, my palms tight

against the Anything Box. "It's beautiful!" 1 whispered.

"It's wonderful. Sue-lynn. Where did you get it?"

Her hands took it back hastily. "It's mine," she said

defiantly. "It's mine."

"Of course," I said. "Be careful now. Don't drop it."

She smiled faintly as she sketched a motion to her pocket.

"I won't." She patted the flat pocket on her way back to her

seat.

Next day she was afraid to look at me at first for fear 1

THE ANYTHING BOX 139

might say something or took something or in some way

remind her of what must seem like a betrayal to her now, but

after I only smiled my usual smile, with no added secret

knowledge, she relaxed.

A night or so later when I leaned over my moon-drenched

windowsill and lei the shadow of my hair hide my face from

such ebullient glory, I remembered the Anything Box. Could

I make one for myself? Could I square off this aching wait-

ing, this outreaching, this silent cry inside me, and make it

into an Anything Box? I freed my hands and brought them

together, thumb to thumb, framing a part of the horizon's

darkness between my upright forefingers. I stared- into the

empty square until my eyes watered. I sighed, and laughed a

little, and let my hands frame my face as 1 leaned out into the

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night- To have magic so near—to feel it tingle off my finger-

tips and then to be so bound that I couldn't receive it. I turned

away from the window—turning my back on brightness.

It wasn't long after this that Alpha succeeded in putting

sharp points of worry back in my thoughts of Sue-lynn. We

had ground duty together, and one morning when we shivered

while the kids ran themselves rosy in the crisp air, she sizzed

in my ear.

"Which one is it? The abnormal one, I mean."

"I don't have any abnormal children," 1 said, my voice

sharpening before the sentence ended because I suddenly

realized whom she meant.

"Well, 1 call it abnormal to stare at nothing." You could

almost taste the acid in her words. "Who is it?"

"Sue-tynn," 1 said reluctantly. "She's playing on the bars

now."

Alpha surveyed the upside-down Sue-lynn, whose brief

skirts were belled down from her bare pink legs and half

covered her face as she swung from one of the bars by her

knees. Alpha clutched her wizened, blue hands together and

breathed on them. "She sure looks normal enough," she

said.

"She is normal!" I snapped.

"Well, bite my head off!" cried Alpha. "You're the one

that said she wasn't, not me—or is it 'not I'? 1 never could

remember. Not me? Not I?"

Zenna Henderson

140

The bell saved Alpha from a horrible end. I never knew a

person so serenely unaware of essentials and so sensitive to

trivia.

But she had succeeded in making me worry about Sue-lynn

again, and the worry exploded into distress a few days later.

Sue-lynn came to school sleepy-eyed and quiet. She didn't

finish any of her work and she fell asieep during rest time. I

cussed TV and drive-ins and assumed a night's sleep would

put it right. But next day Sue-iynn burst into tears and

slapped Davie clear off his chair.

"Why Sue-lynn!" I gathered Davie up in all his astonish-

ment and took Sue-!ynn's hand. She jerked it away from me

and flung herself at Davie again. She got two handfuls of his

hair and had him out of my grasp before 1 knew it. She threw

him bodily against the wall with a flip of her hands, then

doubled up her fists and pressed them to her streaming eyes.

In the shocked silence of the room, she stumbled over to

Isolation and seating herself, back to the class, on the little

chair, she leaned her head into the comer and sobbed quietly

in big gulping sobs.

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"What on earth goes on?" I asked the stupefied Davie,

who sat spraddle-legged on the floor fingering a detached tuft

of hair. "What did you do?"

"I only said 'Robber Daughter,' " said Davie. "It said so

in the paper. My mama said her daddy's a robber. They put

him in jail cause he robbered a gas station." His bewildered

face was trying to decide whether or not to cry. Everything

had happened so fast that he didn't know yel if he was hurt.

"It isn't nice to call names," I said weakly. "Get back

into your seat. I'll take care of Sue-lynn later."

He got up and sat gingerly down in his chair, rubbing his

ruffled hair, wanting to make more of a production of the

situation but not knowing how. He twisted his face experi-

mentally to see if he had tears available and had none.

"Dem girls," he muttered, and tried to shake his fingers

free of a wisp of hair.

I kept my eye on Sue-lynn for the next half hour as I

busied myself with the class. Her sobs soon stopped and her

rigid shoulders relaxed. Her hands were softly in her lap and I

knew she was taking comfort from her Anything Box. We

THE ANYTHING BOX 141

had our talk together later, but she was so completely sealed

off from me by her misery that there was no communication

between us. She sat quietly watching me as I talked, her

hands trembling in her lap. It shakes the heart, somehow, to

see the hands of a little child quiver like that.

That afternoon 1 looked up from my reading group, star-

tied, as though by a cry, to catch Sue-lynn's frightened eyes.

She looked around bewildered and then down at her hands

again—her empty hands. Then she darted to the Isolation

comer and reached under the chair. She went back to her seat

slowly, her hands squared to an unseen weight. For the first

time, apparently, she had had to go gel the Anything Box. It

troubled me with a vague unease for the rest of the afternoon.

Through the days that followed while the trial hung fire. I had

Sue-iynn in attendance bodily, but that was all. She sank into

her Anything Box at every opportunity. And always, if she

had put it away somewhere, she had to go back for it. She

roused more and more reluctantly from these waking dreams,

and there finally came a day when I had to shake her to

waken her.

I went to her mother, but she couldn't or wouldn't under-

stand me, and made me feel like a frivolous gossipmonger

taking her mind away from her husband, despite the fact that

I didn't even mention him—or maybe because I didn't men-

tion him.

"if she's being a bad girl, spank her," she finally said,

wearily shifting the weight of a whining baby from one hip to

another and pushing her tousled hair off her forehead. "What-

ever you do is all right by me- My worrier is all used up. I

haven't got any left for the kids right now."

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Well, Sue-lynn's father was found guilty and sentenced to

the state penitentiary and school was less than an hour old the

next day when Davie came up, clumsily a-tiptoe. braving my

wrath for interrupting a reading group, and whispered hoarsely,

"Sue-lynn's asleep with her eyes open again. Teacher."

We went back to the table and Davie slid into his chair

next to a completely unaware Sue-lynn. He poked her with a

warning finger. "I told you I'd tell on you."

And before our horrified eyes, she toppled, as rigidly as a

Zenrw Hendersw

142

doll, sideways off the chair. The thud of her landing relaxed

her and she lay limp on the green asphalt tile—a thin paper

dolt of a girl, one hand still clenched open around something.

I pried her fingers loose and almost wept to feel enchantment

dissolve under my heavy touch. I carried her down to the

nurse's room and we worked over her with wet towels and

prayer and she finally opened her eyes.

"Teacher." she whispered weakly.

"Yes, Sue-lynn." I took her cold hands in mine.

"Teacher, I almost got in my Anything Box."

"No," I answered. "You couldn't. You're too big."

"Daddy's there," she said. "And where we used to live."

I took a long, long look at her wan face. I hope it was

genuine concern for her that prompted my next words. 1 hope

it wasn't envy or the memory of the niggling nagging of

Alpha's voice that put firmness in my voice as 1 went on.

"That's play-like," I said. "Just for fun."

Her hands jerked protestingly in mine. "Your Anything

Box is just for fun. It's like Davie's cow pony that he keeps

in his desk or Sojie's jet plane, or when the big bear chases

all of you at recess. It's fun-for-play, but it's not for real.

You mustn't think it's for real. It's only play."

"No!" she denied. "No!" she cried frantically, and hunch-

ing herself up on the cot, peering through her tear-swollen

eyes, she scrabbled under the pillow and down beneath the

rough blanket that covered her.

"Where is it?" she cried. "Where is it? Give it back to

me. Teacher!"

She flung herself toward me and pulled open both my

clenched hands.

"Where did you put it? Where did you put it?"

"There is no Anything Box," 1 said flatly, trying to hold

her to me and feeling my heart breaking along with hers.

"You took it!" she sobbed. "You took it away from me!"

And she wrenched herself out of my arms.

"Can't you give it back to her?" whispered the nurse. "If

it makes her feel so bad? Whatever it is—"

"Ifs just imagination," 1 said. almost sullenly. "I can't

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give her back something that doesn't exist."

THE ANYTHING BOX 143

Too young! 1 thought bitterly. Too young to learn that

heart's desire is only play-like.

Of course the doctor found nothing wrong. Her mother

dismissed the matter as a fainting spelt and Sue-tynn came

back to class the next day, thin and listless, staring blankly

out the window, her hands palm down on the desk. I swore

by the pale hollow of her cheek that never, never again would

I take any belief from anyone without replacing it with some-

thing better. What had I given Sue-lynn? What had she better

than I had taken from her? How did I know but that her

Anything Box was on purpose to tide her over rough spots in

her life like this? And what now, now thai I had taken it from

her?

Well, after a time she began to work again, and later, to

play. She came back to smiles, but not to laughter. She

puttered along quite satisfactorily except that she was a can-

dle blown out. The flame was gone wherever the brightness

of belief goes- And she had no more sharing smiles for me,

no overflowing love to bring to me. And her shoulder shrugged

subtly away from my touch.

Then one day I suddenly realized that Sue-lynn was search-

ing our classroom. Stealthily, casually, day by day she was

searching, covering every inch of the room. She went through

every puzzle box, every lump of clay, every shelf and cup-

board, every box and bag. Methodically she checked behind

every row of books and in every child's desk until finally,

after almost a week, she had been through everything in the

place except my desk. Then she began to materialize sud-

denly at my elbow every time 1 opened a drawer. And her

eyes would probe quickly and sharply before I slid it shut

again. But if 1 tried to intercept her looks, they slid away and

she had some legitimate errand that had brought her up to the

vicinity of the desk.

She believes it again. I thought hopefully. She won't ac-

cept the fact that her Anything Box is gone. She wants it

again-

But it is gone. I thought drearily. It's really-for-true gone.

My head was heavy from troubled sleep, and sorrow was a

weariness in all my movements. Waiting is sometimes a

burden almost too heavy to carry. While my children hummed

144 Zenna Henderson

happily over their fun-stuff, I brooded silently out the win-

dow until I managed a iaugh at myself. It was a shaky laugh

that threatened to dissolve into something else. so I bhsked

back to my desk.

As good a time as any to throw out useless things, I

thought, and to see if I can find that colored chalk I put away

so carefully. I plunged my hands into die wilderness of the

bottom right-hand drawer of my desk. It was deep with a

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hugh accumulation of anything—just anything—that might

need a temporary hiding place. I knelt to pull out leftover

Jack Frost pictures, and a broken beanshooter, a chewed red

ribbon, a roll of cap gun ammunition, one striped sock, six

Numbers papers, a rubber dagger, a copy of the Gospel

According to St. Luke, a miniature coal shovel, patterns for

jack-o'-lanterns, and a pink plastic pelican. I retrieved my

Irish linen hankie I thought lost forever and Sojie's report

card that he had told me solemnly had blown out of his hand

and landed on a jet and broke the sound barrier so loud that it

busted all to flitters. Under the welter of miscellany, I felt a

squareness. Oh, happy! I thought, this is where I put the

colored chalk! 1 cascaded papers off both sides of my lifting

hands and shook the box free.

We were together again. Outside, the world was an en-

chanting wilderness of white, the wind shouting softly through

the windows, tapping wet, white fingers against the warm

light. Inside, all the worry and waiting, the apartness and

loneliness were over and forgotten, their hugeness dwindled

by the comfort of a shoulder, the warmth of clasping hands—

and nowhere, nowhere was the fear of parting, nowhere the

need to do without again. This was the happy ending. This

was—

This was Sue-tynn's Anything Box!

My racing heart slowed as the dream faded—and rushed

again at the realization. I had it here! In my junk drawer! It

had been there all the time!

I stood up shakily, concealing the invisible box in the flare

of my skirts. ! sat down and put the box carefully in the

center of my desk, covering the top of it with my palms lest I

should drown again in delight. I looked at Sue-lynn. She was

finishing her fun paper, competently but unjoyously. Now

THE ANYTHING BOX 145

would come her patient sitting with quiet hands until told to

do something else.

Alpha would approve. And very possibly, I thought. Alpha

would, for once in her limited iite, be right. We may need

"hallucinations" to keep us going—all of us but the Alphas—

but when we go so far to try to force ourselves, physically,

into the Never-Neveriand of heart's desire—

1 remembered Sue-lynn's thin rigid body toppling doll-like

off its chair- Out of her deep need she had found—or created?

Who couid tell?—something too dangerous for a child. I

could so easily bring the brimming happiness back to her

eyes—but at what a possible price!

No, I had a duty to protect Sue-lynn- Only maturity—the

maturity born of the sorrow and loneliness that Sue-lynn was

only beginning to know—could be trusted to use an Anything

Box safely and wisely.

My heart thudded as I began to move my hands, letting the

palms slip down from the top to shape the sides of—

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1 had moved them back again before I really saw, and 1

have now learned almost to forget that glimpse of what

heart's desire is like when won at the cost of another's heart.

I sat there at the desk trembling and breathless, my palms

moist, feeling as if 1 had been on a long journey away from

the little schoolroom. Perhaps I had. Perhaps I had been

shown al! the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time.

"Sue-lynn," I called. "Will you come up here when

you're through?"

She nodded unsmilingly and snipped off the last paper

from the edge of Mistress Mary's dress. Without another look

at her handiwork, she carried the scissors safety to the scis-

sors box, crumpled the scraps of paper in her hand and came

up to the wastebasket by the desk.

"I have something for you. Sue-tynn," I said, uncovering

the box.

Her eyes dropped to the desk top. She looked indifferently

up at me. "I did my fun paper already."

"Did you like it?"

"Yes." It was a flat lie.

"Good," I lied right back. "But look here." I squared my

hands around the Anything Box.

146 Zenna Henderson

She look a deep breath and the whole of her little body

stiffened.

"1 found it," I said hastily, fearing anger. "1 found it in

the bottom drawer."

She leaned her chest against my desk, her hands caught

tightly between, her eyes intent on the box, her face white

with the aching want you see on children's faces pressed to

Christmas windows.

"Can I have it?" she whispered.

"It's yours," I said, holding it out. Still she leaned against

her hands, her eyes searching my face.

"Can I have it?" she asked again.

"Yes!" I was impatient with this anticlimax. "But—"

Her eyes flickered. She had sensed my reservation before 1

had. "But you must never try to get into it again."

"Okay," she said. the word coming out on a long relieved

sigh. "Okay, Teacher."

She took the box and tucked it lovingly into her small

pocket. She turned from the desk and started back to her

table. My mouth quirked with a smalt smile. It seemed to me

that everything about her had suddenly turned upwards—even

the ends of her straight taffy-colored hair. The subtle flame

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about her that made her Sue-lynn was there again- She scarcely

touched the floor was she walked.

I sighed heavily and traced on the desk top with my finger

a probable size for an Anything Box. What would Sue-lynn

choose to see first? How like a drink after a drought it would

seem to her.

I was startled as a small figure materialized at my elbow. It

was Sue-lynn, her fingers carefully squared before her.

"Teacher," she said softly, all the flat emptiness gone

from her voice. "Anytime you want to take my Anything

Box, you just say so."

I groped through my astonishment and incredulity for words.

She couldn't possibly have had time to look into the Box yet.

"Why. thank you, Sue-lynn," I managed. "Thanks a lot. I

would like very much to borrow it sometime."

"Would you like it now?" she asked, proffering it.

"No, thank you," I said, around the lump in my throat.

"I've had a turn already. You go ahead."

THE ANYTHING BOX 147

"Okay," she murmured. Then—"Teacher?"

"Yes?"

Shyly she leaned against me, her cheek on my shoulder.

She looked up at me with her warm, unshuttered eyes. then

both arms were suddenly around my neck in a brief awkward

embrace. \,

"Watch out!" I whispered, laughing into the collar of her

blue dress. "You'll lose it again!"

"No I won't," she laughed back. patting me flat pocket of

her dress. "Not ever, ever again!"

A BORN CHARMER

by Edward P. Hughes

At sixteen, his father promoted Dafydd Madoc Llewelyn.

"Mab," said the tad casually, "I reckon as how you are old

enough now to shoulder some responsibility. Owain and I

have plenty to do about the farm. I want you to keep an eye

on the sheep."

Dafydd scowled down at this boots to mask the disappoint-

ment. Guarding sheep was a dog's job. He had been hoping

for real responsibility. He demurred. "If we are so short-

handed, cannot the sheep manage without an eye on them?"

Unexpectedly, his father smiled. "Well, you won't only be

watching sheep, will you? Doesn't the Bangor road go by the

side of Moelfre? And would that not be the way the Raiders

would likely come, if they wanted to get at Cwm Goch?"

Then he punched Dafydd's shoulder proudly. "The Council

has decided that Many Price is getting too old for sentinel.

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They reckon you can take his place!"

Next morning, the tad unlocked the dining room cupboard

and got out the twelvebore. Until then, Dafydd had handled

the gun only under supervision. He watched his father thumb

a shell into each chamber, then snap on the safety. "Two

rounds should be enough, mab. One for 'Raiders sighted,'

two for 'Help wanted quick!' " He proffered the gun to

Dafydd, face serious. "Keep your eye on that road. Don't get

personally involved. Let them take a sheep or two. if that is

alt they want."

Dafydd accepted the gun, hoping his father would not

notice his hands trembling. He tucked it under his arm,

148

A BORN CHARMER 149

muzzle down, as he had been taught."! will be most careful,

tad,'" he promised.

His father smiled again and patted his shoulder. "Go and

get your dinner now from the mom. Then get up that hill as

quick as you can. It is almost daylight."

The wind blew cold on the slopes of Moelfre. The black

slate roof of Careg Ddu lay out of sight behind the gorse-ciad

shoulder he had just climbed. Dafydd pulled up the collar of

his sheepskin coat, turned his back to the hsing sun, and

scanned the fields and road below. The long slopes were dark

green in the mountain's shadow. Clusters of white dots showed

where the sheep had spent the night. Nothing moved on the

road.

He pulled a hand from his pocket and casually conjured up

a shotgun shell. Easy when you had the knack. And the poor

old tad economizing on ammo because it had become so hard

to find! If only he knew that his younger son could produce

shotgun shells at will! Dafydd thought of the charmer they

had caught in the village and shivered at the gruesome mem-

ory. Sorry, tad—some things had to be kept secret!

Not that Dafydd had anything against charmers. There

were hardly enough of them to worry about. One in each

million people, he had heard. He could even call himself a

charmer—if he dared do publicly what he practiced in pri-

vate. But folk were queer. Still blaming the charmers for

wrecking their daft old civilization, and the war finished

thirty years ago. Still ranting on about things you had never

seen—motion pictures, airplanes, oranges. But what you had

never had, you never missed. And if some Russky really had

charmed an H-bomb or two onto the English Houses of

Parliament, more than likely the Saesneg had done it to the

Russkies first. And why keep on about what happened years

ago? The bombs had not touched Cwm Goch. Maybe a

sprinkle of the fallout stuff blew over now and again, but, if

you could not see it, taste it, nor smell it—how could you

tell?

As he watched, the mist lifted from the humps of Yr Eifl

and Moel Pen-Llechog. He saw the sea, and he grimaced.

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Gone for good now, he was willing to wager, would be the

sailing trips with the village lads. Brother Owain would make

150 Edward P. Hughes

sure that brother Dafydd did not neglect his sentineling and

his mutton-watching on Moelfre. Brother Owain was rapidly

becoming a pain in the neck- Dafydd hitched bow and quiver

more comfortably across his back, tucked gun under his arm,

grasped his crook firmly, and started downhill. There was an

animal bleating below—probably stuck in a thorn bush. Dafydd

sighed. Dealing with a Raider would be more fun-

He gained the road before he found the plaintive teg stuck,

legs up, in a ditch. The sun was warm. He shed coat and

accouterments, stooped to grasp a front and back leg. From

the comer of his eye he saw a shadow move on the road. He

flung himself sideways. A hand gripping a knife swept through

the space vacated by his shoulder blades. He kicked out,

catching a wrist, sending a knife flashing end over end. The

aspiring assassin yelled and dived for the weapon. Dafydd

dived after him and got him in a headlock before he reached

the knife. The man was undernourished; Dafydd held him

easily despite his struggles. What a sucker he had been!

Caught out on his first day as sentinel' Angrily he forced the

man's head down. "What's the idea, eh?"

"Ifor!" yeiled his captive. "Help!"

Ifor emerged from the cover of the hedge, knife in hand.

"Hold him still. Turn," he requested.

Dafydd hid his shock. "Come any closer," he warned,

"and your pal is a corpse."

"Gel his gun," wailed Turn, now bent almost double.

"I will do that." agreed Ifor. "If only to prevent him

letting it off. We don't want the yokels warned, do we?"

He reached the twelvebore before Dafydd could hook his

foot around it.

"Now. my bucko'" Ifor waved the gun encouragingly.

"Suppose you let Turn go. Then we can discuss things

reasonable like."

"I have warned you," panted Dafydd, not quite prepared

to see if Turn's neck would actually break. "Bugger off, or

your pal will suffer."

"You are being stubborn," persisted Ifor. "We haven't

waited here all morning, listening to that blolty sheep, to'be

easy put off." He darted sideways without warning.

A BORN CHARMER

151

Dafydd swung his captive like a shield. "Turn," he gasped,

"tell your mate to piss off before I break your neck!"

The man struggled ineffectually. "Ifor! He is killing me!"

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"Swing the bastard round," counseled Ifor. "I can't get at

him with you in the way."

Dafydd tensed his muscles to resist any effort his prisoner

might make. Ifor stood barely a yard off, knife poised. Then

Dafydd heard the sound of hooves. A horse and rider, fol-

lowed by a pack pony, emerged from the shadow of trees

overhanging the road.

"Help!" yelled Dafydd.

Ifor cursed fluently. Fifty yards away the horseman kicked

his mount into a gallop. Ifor half turned, one eye on Dafydd,

blade ready.

The rider swung under his knife, striking behind the shoul-

der. Ifor screamed and dropped the knife. His arm hung limp.

He hoisted the shotgun one-handed and swung after the horse-

man, trying to thumb off the safety.

Dafydd hurled his captive away. There was a shotgun in

his hands. He blasted shot into the tarmac at Ifor's feet.

"Drop it!"

Ifor stared, unbelieving. "Duw! A blotty charmer!" He let

the gun fall. Turn cowered on the road, wordless.

The rider returned, leading his horse. He said in Saesneg,

"You didn't need much help, friend."

Dafydd switched languages. "You spoiled his best arm.

That was a good aid.''

The Sais slapped a leather-covered sap on his palm and

laughed. "What shall we do with 'em? Execute them here, or

take them to your authorities?"

Dafydd glanced involuntarily from the gun in his hands to

its twin on the road. "I do not think I want them to go to my

village," he admitted.

"Mm." The Sais eyed both guns. "You must have quite a

collection of those things."

Dafydd had not, but he did not wish the knowledge broad-

cast. The charmer who could get rid of things, besides pro-

ducing them, was a very rare bird.

"I try to keep it quiet," he confessed.

152 Edward P. Hughes

"Better do 'em here, then," advised the Sais. "And quick.

That shot will bring someone."

Dafydd nodded. "It is a signal- They will send scouts from

CwmGoch."

"Well, get on with it. Those villians have said their prayers."

Dafydd raised the gun. Ifor glared at him. nursing his

shoulder- Turn sal uncaring in the road. Dafydd lowered the

gun. "I cannot do it. The gun only came because I was

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angry, and I am no longer angry."

"Give it to me, then," said the Sais.

Dafydd handed him the weapon. The Sais aimed it at Ifor.

"Which barrel did you fire?"

"They are both loaded. But there must be only one more

shot. The father gave me but two shells."

The Sais snorted. "You are being greedy. You want two

for the price of one. Now there are two guns we can justify as

many shots as we wish. Your father doesn't know how many

shells I carry." He brought the gun up to his shoulder.

Dafydd closed his eyes. Then the words burst from him.

"Stop! I cannot let you murder them."

The Sais kept the gun steady. "I am not bothered. The

rogues deserve to die. They would have done for you. Let me

do for them."

Dafydd shook his head. "Let them go. They are both hurt.

And we have suffered no harm."

The Sais frowned. "There are probably more of 'em down

the road, waiting for these two to report back."

"I do not care. The village is warned now. They will go

away."

The Sais lowered the gun. "If only all the Welsh were as

soft as you!" He gestured to the captives. "Go on—scat!

Before I change my mind."

They hesitated, incredulous.

The gun roared. Shot sprayed over their heads. They fled

like guilty schoolboys.

The Sais tucked the duplicate gun inside his saddle roil. He

nodded at the sheep bleating in the ditch. "Suppose you get

that cuckoo out of its nest, while I find my pony?"

Dafydd had forgotten the trapped teg. He said, "1 reckon

my job will be easier than yours."

A BORN CHARMER 153

The Sais said. "I wouldn't bet." He put two fingers into

his mouth and blew a shrill blast. "Sometimes he comes,

sometimes he don't. Not always obedient like the horse." He

whistled again, and the pony trotted from the shadow of the

trees, where it had been cropping grass. The Sais laughed.

"Just being awkward, you see!"

Dafydd grabbed the teg's legs and heaved. The animal

came free, making more noise about it than when it had been

born. Dafydd clapped it on the rump to send it squealing up

the hillside. Then, grinning, he put two fingers into his mouth

in imitation of the Sais and blew an echo of his whistle. The

teg ignored him. The Sais applauded. "All you need now is a

reliable horse."

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"Or more cooperative sheep," Dafydd amended.

"My name," said the Sais, "if you are interested, is Long

John Ledger- Of nowhere in particular."

Dafydd walked beside him, itching to take the horse's rein.

The Sais was indeed long—well over six feet. Corduroy

jacket and britches provided no ciue to his origins. The

moleskin cap was incongruous, but smart.

Dafydd introduced himself. Saeson were rare on the Lleyn

since the collapse of the pre-bomb English tourist trade.

There was novelty in strolling and chatting with someone

from a different part of the world. He asked, "Are you

traveling to Cwm Goch?"

The Sais halted while the horse voided a bladder. "I am

making for Pwllheii. I have a date with the circus."

"Then you have plenty of time. The circus is not due for a

month."

The Sais clapped hand to mouth. "A month in front of

myself, am I? They must have sent me out early, without

letting on."

"Who would they be?" asked Dafydd, curiosity vanquish-

ing his politeness.

"House of Correction in Bangor. I usually arrange to

spend the winter somewhere cozy. They must have grown

tired of feeding me."

"What did you do?"

"Stole something—I forget what." The Sais shrugged,

without embarrassment. "It doesn't matter."

Edward P. Hughes

154

"And what do you do for a living?"

The Sais doffed his cap and bowed. He extended a handi

fingers spread wide, made a fist, twirled his wrist, and fanned

out a pack of cards.

"A charmer'" Dafydd could not believe his eyes.

The Sais laughed- "No, sir—a conjurer! Innocuous and

entertaining. I do parlor tricks ex tempore. and more impres-

sive productions, given time, I have a contract permitting me

to set up a stall within the perimeter of the circus area at

Pwllheli in June."

"Since you have a month to spare," Dafydd suggested,

"you could put on a show in Cwm Goch."

"it is an idea," admitted the Sais. "Do you pay in money

in Cwm Goch?"

"What is money?'*

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The Sais rummaged in his pocket. He brought out a couple

of carved bone tokens the size of coat buttons. Dafydd exam-

ined them. Each had a face and a date cut into one side, and

on the reverse, the larger showed the words One Pound and

the smaller Fifty Pence. Dafydd returned them to the Sais.

"What use are they?"

Long John Ledger laughed. "No use at all, Dai my inno-

cent." He tossed the coins into the air, caught them, and

showed Dafydd an empty palm. "Voila! The quickness of the

hand deceives me Dai! But they are used in London Town—

which is where I got them. And sometimes I am able to

persuade tradesmen here and there to accept them as pay-

ment, since they are carved from ivory and cannot be

charmed."

Dafydd shook his head scornfully. In Cwm Goch you

discharged a debt with your creditor, and there was the

Arbiter to decide the value of a lamb—or a day's work—if

you were not able to agree. The Arbiter would also hold

lOUs until quarter day, if you wished-

He said, "We can carve our own bones, man. You would

be lucky to get anyone I know to accept those things—although,

strangely enough, we use the same words on our lOUs."

Long John allowed a fifty piece to reappear. It jumped

from knuckle to knuckle across the back of his hand. '' Pounds

and pence are words that come from before the bombs, when

A BORN CHARMER 155

everyone used tokens like these. They have been reintroduced

in London to make trading easier."

Dafydd recalled illustrations in the mam's book. "I have

seen pictures of London. Does the King still live there? We

have our own King Rhys in Caernarvon, now, you know."

King Rhys of Ruthin was also Lord of the Lleyn Peninsula.

Dafydd remembered being taken to Conway for the coronation.

Long John palmed the tokens. "You could call him 'king'

I suppose. Most Londoners call him 'The Owner' because he

owns the town. I am told he makes charmers welcome."

Dafydd made a face. "That would be a change. Perhaps,

one day, I shall get to London and see if / am welcome."

Cwm Goch Defense Force were manning the roadblock at

the junction for Pentre-bach. Dafydd greeted them. "It is all

right. They have gone."

Blacksmith Idris Evans, Commander of the Cwm Goch

Defence Force, called, "Stand easy, men!" Forty-odd as-

sorted weapons were uncocked, forty-odd faces turned to

Dafydd and his companion. In a quieter voice. Idris asked,

"Who has gone, mab?"

Dafydd waved airily. "The Raiders—they ran away."

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He heard the tad's voice from the hillside above the barri-

cades. "How many shots did you fire, Dafydd?"

"One." He pointed to Long John. "He fired the other."

Dafydd stopped hurriedly, fingering a nonexistent stone from

his boot, hoping me tad would not notice the flush in his

cheeks.

"1 said there was two," commented an anonymous voice.

Emrys Jones the Buss, Senior Village Councillor and only

man of Cwm Goch tall enough to match the Sais for height,

said, "And who is this?"

Long John Ledger swept off his cap. He bowed. "A lone

traveler who was able to give assistance to this stalwart youth

in a time of need."

Forty-odd pairs of ears pricked at the sound of English.

Emrys switched languages courteously. "And what are you

doing here, stranger?"

Long John explained at length.

"And those Raiders? You are sure that they have gone?"

"Like rabbits before the reaper."

156 Edward P. Hughes

Emrys drew himself to his full six foot four. **Wc thank

you. Englishman, for the assistance you gave our sentinel.

Welcome to Cwm Goch!" He turned to Dafydd. "Well done,

lad!"

Dafydd felt his chest swell. The ticklish part was over.

Now he could enjoy himself.

Emrys made a sign to Idris. Commander Evans raised his

voice- "Troops—form up!" Forty-odd pair of feet shuffled

through an ill-practiced drill which eventually had them all in

lines facing back toward Cwm Goch. "Forward march!"

The commander was now at the rear of his troops. He

dropped back to chat with the Sais. Dafydd shouldered the

twelvebore in Defense Force style and got into step. Maybe,

after this, he would be permitted to go on the slate at Jones

the Pub's tavern.

He heard the tad's voice from the head of the column.

"Mob! Who minds the sheep?"

Dafydd sighed. Ten steps, and his glory was used up! He

fell out of the column. From the slopes of Moelfre, he

watched the Defense Force disappear into the dust.

"No," said his father. "You may not go on the slate at

Jones the Pub. Not even if every lad in the village is on rt

already—which I do not believe. You are far too young to be

drinking spirituous liquor.

"But—tad!" Dafydd bleated.

His father's eyebrows came down darkly, like a line squall.

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"But me no 'buts,' lad!" His eyes went to the window.-"!

see Ceinwen Thomas is taking the cow to be milked. If you

care, you may go out immediately and talk to her. Otherwise

you have my permission to stay and help your brother and me

prepare the sheep dip for tomorrow."

Dafydd got himself through the doorway almost before his

father had finished the sentence.

Ceinwen Thomas was not exactly pretty, but Dafydd liked

her well enough. When the only alternatives were fat Blodwen

Hughes, Gronwy Jones the Schoolmistress, or Mari Evans

who resembled her lad's pigs—well, prettiness was not im-

portant- Besides, Ceinwen was a good sport—and, also, she

had Dafydd's parents' approval. The Thomases lived in the

largest house in the village. Before the bombs, the story

A BORN CHARMER 157

went, they had run something called a teashop, supplying

English holiday-makers with food and drink. The cow was all

that remained of the business, but Tecwin Thomas and Arfon

Llewelyn still honored a pre-bomb agreement by which

Ceinwen's father pastured a cow on Llewelyn grass.

Dafydd caught up with her at the gate to the milking

parlor. She said, "Where was you today, Dai? Howel and

Gethyn was looking for you in the village."

He said nonchalantly. "I am sentinel, now. Taking over

from Matty Price- And I have also to keep an eye on my

sheep."

She cocked her head on one side. "Oh—it is important we

are. now, is it? Well, did you hear about the Sais?"

Dafydd, who had spent his second day on Moelfre almost

hoping the Anglesey Raiders might return to relieve the bore-

dom, said. "What about the Sais?"

Ceinwen tethered the cow to a ring on the wall. She got a

pail and a stool, then rinsed her hands at the yard pump. "He

has been doing whal he calls conjuring tricks. You know—

making things come and go, without you spotting how."

He nodded. "1 have seen him do it."

"Well, then, he has been fooling us all. Blodwen Hughes,

who is helping Jones the Pub where your Sais is staying,

went up to do his room. She found a Purdy twetveborc

hidden in the wardrobe. It is the exact twin of your tad's."

Dafydd felt the color rising in his face. "There are hun-

dreds of twelvebores tike my tads," he objected.

Ceinwen sat down on the stool, pushed her head into the

cow's flank, and began to stroke the teats. "With a mended

trigger guard like your tad's? Remember when he broke it

over the back of that fox. the day he ran out of shells?

Btodwen got Idris to go and look. Idris said the repair was his

own work—he would know it anywhere."

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Dafydd flushed hotly. "Are you trying to say the Sais is a

thief?"

The milk made ringing sounds as Ceinwen began to direct

alternate streams into the pail. "Oh, no! We know you're still

got your lad's gun. Your man is a charmer. They have him

locked in the old Post Office. The Council are going to deal

Edward P. Hughes

158

with him tomorrow. He is lucky none of King Rhys' men are

in the village—they would not wait that long!"

Dafydd's throat felt tight. The last charmer taken in the

village had died painfully. "What wilt they do to him?"

Ceinwen wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back

of her hand. "Some of the Council wanted him put down

straight off, but Pastor Roberts appealed for clemency. He

said, if the Sais couldn't see, he wouldn't be able to charm—so

they are putting out his eyes in the morning."

Dafydd could not sleep. Around two o'clock, judging by

die stars, he got up and quietly dressed. In the village below

they had a man locked up for a charmer. He-had only to open

his mouth to put Dafydd Madoc Llewelyn in a similar predic-

ament. Why had Long John not spoken out?

Dafydd eased up the sash and climbed through the win-

dow. It was an easy drop onto the roof of the unused chemi-

cal privy. He soft-footed across the yard, vaulted the fence,

and was off down the hill, wet grass soaking his trousers. The

moon provided enough light for him to reach the village

without mishap.

Cwm Goch slept. Dafydd avoided the outpost sentinels,

and found Willie Evans on watch before the Post Office door,

Fleetest runner in the village, Willie, but not very bright.

Dafydd shook him awake.

"Willie—I want a quiet word with the Sais. Go take a

walk. I'll keep guard."

Willie stumbled to his feet- "I've been wanting to go to the

back."

Dafydd gave him a push. "Now is your chance, boyo."

The old Post Office was a converted wooden barn, unused

for postal purposes since the bombs. An enormous wooden

beam, doweled into position, barred the door. Shuttered win-

dows were similarly fastened. The ex-bam had held charmers

before. There was no way Dafydd could have released the

Sais without rousing the village.

In English, he hissed, "Are you awake, Long John?"

The Sais whispered back. "Would you be sleeping under

the circumstances? Who is it?"

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"It is me, Dafydd. What are you going to do?'1

"What can I do, friend? I was foolish to keep that gun. I

A BORN CHARMER

159

See

had thought to swap it for a few necessities in Pwllheli.

where it got me?"

"Why have you not told them who the real charmer is?"

He heard a rueful laugh. "Is that what you want, Dai?"

"Dulv.'No!"

"It wouldn't help, anyway. We would both finish up as

suspects. And some of the tests for charmers can be fatal,

even though you are innocent. What's the testing process in

Cwm Goch?"

Dafydd choked. "They—they are not going to test you.

The Council has already decided. They arc going to blind you

to make sure you never charm no more."

"Mm . . . how exactly do they plan to do that, little

Welshman?"

Dafydd tried to recall what Ceinwen had said. "They will

pluck out your eyes—I think." He hesitated. "I have heard

thai it is not very . . . painful."

Long John was silent- Dafydd said, "I am sorry."

"It is not your fault, lad. How exactly do they manage the

job? Come on. little friend. I can take it."

Dafydd's voice trembled. "Last time they used a spoon. I

can just remember. I was not very old. Afterwards, die

soldiers chopped off his head."

"But 1 am to be spared the last indignity?"

"Pastor Roberts pleaded for your life. He said, if you was

blind you could not be a charmer. And so they should not put

an innocent man to death."

The Sais' voice was suddenly urgent. "Dai, can you get

me out of here, now?"

Dafydd studied the old barn joylessly. Built entirely from

timber, dowels—no nails, no charming could touch it. "There

is nothing I could do that would not make a noise. And Willie

Evans is watching from over the road."

"Damn Willie Evans' Can you set fire to this place?"

"Why—are you loose in mere?"

"I am tied to a chair, hand and foot."

"Then it is too dangerous. I will try to think up something

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for after they bring you out tomorrow."

There was a tremor in the Sais' voice. "Think hard then,

Dafydd. They are me only eyes I've got."

160 Edward P. Hughes

He was first up and dressed next morning. When his

mother came down, he said, "Can I go to the village today?"

His mom said, "And who will watch the Bangor road?"

He fiddled with a coat button, avoiding her gaze. "Old

Matty Price is still keeping an eye out- They have not told

him yet that I am sentinel also. It is just that his eyes are not

so good as they were. Can I go?"

"You had better ask your lad."

"1 only want to see what they do to the Sais. Then I will

go up Moelfre."

The mom lit the ready-laid stove with a big Cardiff match.

"I am surprised you should say that, mab. I am sure / should

not like to watch what they do to him this morning."

"Do you not hate the charmers, then, mam?"

He found himself staring into a pair of placid gray eyes

which made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. Suddenly he

was glad that the Sais was his friend. She said, "Mab—it is

wrong to hate anyone. This Sais has done us no harm."

"But may I go?"

"Ask your tad."

His father said, "We had enough of you last time.

Nightmares—waking up screaming. You get on up Moelfre

as soon as you have finished breakfast."

Dafydd bit his lip. Unless he got to the village, Long

John's eyes were forfeit- If only his father appreciated that.

"But lad—it is important!"

His father's eyebrows make a menacing line. "One Llewelyn

at this mpming's pantomime will be sufficient. Your brother

is staying here. You will be upon Moelfre doing your duty. Is

that understood?''

Dafydd nodded meekly.

Once over the gorsey shoulder, he dropped down to the

road and worked his way back to the village. The sun was

well up, and people were about by the time he reached the

gate of the Thomas milking parlor. Ceinwen was closing the

door of the cool house.

He hissed. "Ceinwen! Will you do us a favor?"

She came to the gate. "Shouldn't you be up on me hill?"

He nodded. "My tad thinks that is where I am." He

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hesitated only a moment. There was no time for cajoling. He

A BORN CHARMER 161

had to take her into his confidence. "Listen—do you think

that poor bloody Sais deserves to lose his eyes?"

She picked at the wood of the gate. "My tad says charmers

should be destroyed tike vermin, because of the damage they

have done."

"I am asking you—not your tad."

"Don't shout at me, Dafydd Llewelyn. I am not your wife

yet."

He held back a ready response. "1 am sorry, Ceinwen.

Will you help me to save the Sais' sight?"

"It might be dangerous. Why do you want to help him?'1

"He saved my life. Surely I owe him a good turn."

"My tad says—"

"Sod your tad! I am talking about an innocent man's

eyes."

"How do you know he is innocent?"

"Because—" He balled his fists in frustration. His mouth

opened and shut. It came out in a rush. "Because / am the

charmer! I charmed that spare gun."

"Dai!" Her eyes grew round, like big daisies.

"Look!" He laid his hand on the top of the gate, palm up.

A shotgun shell appeared in it. "Now do you believe me?"

She grabbed the shell from his hand and flung it far into

the grass. "Dai—you must not let them find out!"

"Don't worry—I won't," he reassured her. "But I've got

to help the Sais.''

She said, "What do you want me to do?"

The square in Cwm Goch was crowded by the time Dafydd

climbed, crouching furtively, onto the roof of the school-

house. Owen Owen the carpenter had knocked out the secu-

rity dowels holding the bar which closed the door of the old

Post Office. Two helpers withdrew the great beam. Then they

carried out the Sais, chair and ail, and brought him to the war

memorial. Six bowmen stood in a semicircle, arrows nocked.

The porters loosed the Sais from his chair and bound him

with hempen rope to the pillar of stone. They tied an extra

ligature to hold his head immovable.

Pastor Roberts in full canonicals stood behind the archers.

The voice of Emrys Jones, speaking English, carried clearly

to me school roof.

162 Edward P. Hughes

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"Englishman, you have betrayed yourself as a charmer,

and it is useless to deny it. By the taw of the land, you should

die."

Pastor Roberts raised his voice. "Thou shall not suffer a

witch to live. Exodus, chapter twenty-two, verse eighteen."

Emrys ignored the interruption. "Sightless charmers can-

not harm. Ergo, they are no longer charmers. Do you under-

stand the need for you to be sightless. Englishman?"

Long John Ledger responded in a loud voice. "I have done

you no harm. I intend you no harm. Let me go, and 1 will

leave Cwm Goch."

Emrys Jones wagged his head. "Rhys of Ruthin would

hardly accept that as a valid excuse for releasing you. And we

are accountable to him."

"It is not the harm you do now," pointed out Tecwin

Thomas. "It is the harm your kind have done in the past."

"The sins of the fathers—" began Pastor Roberts.

"Shut up, you old fool!" yelled Ceinwen's father.

"Keep me prisoner while 1 send an appeal to King Rhys,"

suggested Long John.

Again Emrys Jones wagged his head. "You are playing for

time. Englishman, and we have none to spare. Executor!"

No one moved.

Emrys Jones turned round. "Where is Dylan Williams?"

A voice. "He is not here."

"Then who has the spoon?"

No one spoke.

Emrys Jones said, "1 will get another."

In silence the Senior Councillor crossed the road, entered

his house, and returned with a teaspoon. He called, "Stand

forward who will do the job'"

No one moved. A voice called, "Find yourself a soldier!"

Dafydd thought he recognized his father's laugh.

Emrys puffed out his cheeks, as he did when faced with

knotty Council problems, "i am sorry that no one is prepared

to undertake an honorable task. I suppose I must do my own

dirty work." He turned back to the Sais. "If this hufls too

much. Englishman, I apologize. But, consider; it is better to

lose your sight than lose your life—and it will be over in a

minute."

A BORN CHARMER 163

He approached the Sais, spoon raised.

Dafydd dared delay no longer. There was no chance, now,

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that Long John could talk himself out of this fix. Dafydd

glared at the pillar to which the Sais was bound. He knew the

war memorial as well as he knew his own front door from

the triangular apex, past the catalogue of names on its face, to

the base—chipped by a Raider's bullet long before he was

bom.

He charmed, and the war memorial disappeared. The Sais

stood free, bonds hanging loosely around him.

"Archers!" shrieked Emrys.

Dafydd charmed again, a picture from the mom's book

clear in his mind. And, like some medieval knight, the Sais

stood in a replica of the armor worn by Edward Plantagenet,

Black Prince of England. The crowd fell back. A nervous

finger twitched, and aa arrow bounced harmlessly off me

Sais' breastplate.

Dafydd put two fingers into his mouth and blew a shrill

blast. Down at the tavern, Ceinwen Thomas opened a stable

door to push out a horse and a pony.

Dafydd whistled again. The horse whickered and came up

to the square at a smart trot, towing the reluctant pony.

The Black Prince had his sword out-

back!" he ordered. "I command you in the name of Sir

John Ledger de Main!"

The bowmen retreated before him- On the far side of the

square a man raised a shotgun, and pulled the trigger

ineffectually.

Dafydd grinned.

He looked anxiously up the road towards Pastor Roberts*

chapel. It was high time his diversion was showing. He

glimpsed the unnoticed wisps of smoke trailing from the

chapel windows. From me cover of the schoolhouse project,

he yelled, "Fire! The chapel is on fire!"

He heard Pastor Roberts' high-pitched shriek. Other voices

took up the warning. When he dared to look, the crowd was

streaming up the road towards the burning building.

Sir John Ledger de Main stood alone in the square. His

horse and loaded pack pony trotted up and halted, whinnying

164 Edward P. Hughes

at the unfamiliar armor. The Black Night got leisurely onto

his mount. He raised the sword in salute.

"Elegantly done, Dai' You did not need much help. that

time!"

Dafydd glanced nervously up the street to where the chapel

bumed- The damp straw he had set smoldering in the chancei

that morning was still producing enough smoke to hold the

firelighters' attention. He stood up to wave at the Black

Knight. "Time you were on your way, Sais!"

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The Black Knight waved back. "Thanks for my eyes, little

Welshman. Don't forget London when your luck runs out

here!"

Then Long John Ledger sheathed his sword and was off

down the street, like some lone Crusader on his way to war.

Dafydd waved until he was out of sight, then turned his

attention to the burning chapel. Encouraged by Pastor Rob-

erts, the population of Cwm Goch had formed bucket chains

to drench the chapel through door and windows.

They appeared to have forgotten Long John. Dafydd sniffed

scornfully. Without the backing of King Rhys' soldiers, Cwm

Goch hadn't much stomach for charmer-baiting. They would

probably make sure the fire was not out while there was a

chance that the mail-clad menace was still in the village!

Dafydd eyed the dense billows of smoke. He had piled the

straw well clear of the wooden pews, so there was little

chance of serious damage. Maybe Pastor Roberts would want

some sooty stonework scrubbed later on: Dafydd Llewelyn

would be pleased to volunteer.

The wind veered, sending smoke down the street to enve-

lope the schoolhouse roof. Dafydd coughed amid the fumes

and grinned. It had been a good charm—one the mam would

surely approve of, if only he dared tell her. A full suit of

armor, by damn—and only a picture to work from! And

everyone convinced Long John Ledger was the culprit!

Everyone, that is, except—'

Dafydd launched himself down the incline, no slipperier

nor steeper than some of the slopes on Moelfre. Time to go

before his fellow conspirator arrived dying to blather on about

the success of their plan. He dropped from the drain pipe,

picked himself out of the dust. He saw her running up the

A BORN CHARMER 165

street from Jones' tavern. Ceinwen who knew his secret.

Ceinwen whose father would not see reason about charmers.

Ceinwen who maybe now thought she had a hold on Dafydd

Madoc Llewelyn. . . .

He shivered. He was in no mood to face his new ally. in

any case, the firelighters would soon discover the fire was

arson and come looking for the criminal. The tad among

them. He could hear his father's voice. "Dafydd—who minds

the sheep?"

He turned towards the square, concentrated, and restored

Cwm Goch's war memorial, bullet chip and all. Then he

started back up the hill towards the slopes of Moelfre. Ceinwen

Thomas, and the future, could look after themselves for the

time being. Dafydd Llewelyn now needed an alibi that only

absence from the scene of the crime could provide. Let the

tad tell him all about Long John's escape and how the chapel

went on fire when he got home that night.

Dafydd smirked, tasting the wine of success. Too young to

drink spirituous liquor, was he?

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WHAT IF-

by Isaac Asimov

Norman and Liwy were late, naturally, since catching a train

is always a matter of last-minute delays, so they had to take

me only available seat in the coach. It was the one toward the

front; the one with nothing before it but the seat that faced

wrong way, with its back hard against the front partition,

While Norman heaved the suitcase onto the rack. Liwy

found herself chafing a little.

If a couple took the wrong-way seat before them, they

would be staring self-consciously into each other's faces all

the hours it would take to reach New York; or else, which

was scarcely better, they would have to erect synthetic barri-

ers of newspaper. Still, there was no use in taking a chance

on there being another unoccupied double seat elsewhere in

the train.

Norman didn't seem to mind, and mat was a little disap-

pointing to Livvy. Usually they held their moods in common.

That, Norman claimed, was why he remained sure that he

had married the right girl.

He would say, "We fit each other, Liwy, and mat's the

key fact. When you're doing a jigsaw puzzle and one piece

fits another, that's it. There are no other possibilities, and of

course there are no other girls."

And she would laugh and say, "If you hadn't been on the

streetcar that day, you would probably never had met-me-

What would you have done then?"

"Stayed a bachelor. Naturally. Besides, I would have met

you through Georgette another day."

"It wouldn't have been the same."

166

WHAT IF- 167

"Sure it would."

"No, it wouldn't. Besides, Georgette would never have

introduced me. She was interested in you herself, and she's

the type who knows belter than to create a possible rival."

"What nonsense."

Livvy asked her favorite question; "Norman, what if you

had been one minute later at the streetcar comer and had

taken the next car? What do you suppose would have

happened?"

"And what if fish had wings and all of them flew to the

top of the mountains? What would we have to eat on Fridays

then?"

But they hod caught the streetcar, and fish didn't have

wings, so that now they had been married five years and ate

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fish on Fridays. And because they had been married five

years, they were going to celebrate by spending a week in

New York.

Then she remembered the present problem. "I wish we

could have found some other seat."

Norman said, "Sure. So do I. But no one has taken it yet,

so we'll have relative privacy as far as Providence, anyway."

Livvy was unconsoled, and felt herself justified when a

plump little man walked down the central aisle of the coach.

Now, where had he come from? The train was halfway

between Boston and Providence, and if he had had a seat,

why hadn't he kept it? She took out her vanity and considered

her reflection. She had a theory that if she ignored the little

man, he would pass by. So she concentrated on her light-

brown hair which, in the rush of catching the train, had

become disarranged just a little; at her blue eyes, and at her

little mouth with the plump lips which Norman said looked

like a permanent kiss.

Not bad, she thought.

Then she looked up, and the little man was in the seat

opposite. He caught her eye and grinned widely. A series of

lines curled about the edges of his smile. He lifted his hat

hastily and put it down beside him on top of the little black

box he had been carrying. A circle of white hair instantly

sprang up stiffly about the large bald spot that made the

center of his skull a desert.

168 Isaac Asimov

She could not help smiling back a little, but then she

caught sight of the black box again and the smite faded. She

yanked at Norman's elbow.

Norman looked up from his newspaper. He had startlingly

dark eyebrows that almost met above the bridge of his nose,

giving him a formidable first appearance. But they and the

dark eyes beneath bent upon her now with only the usual look

of pleased and somewhat amused affection.

He said, "What's up?" He did not look at the plump little

man opposite.

Liwy did her best to indicate what she saw by a little

unobtrusive gesture of her hand and head. But the little man

was watching and she felt a fool, since Norman simply stared

at her blankly.

Finally she pulled him closer and whispered, "Don't you

see what's printed on his box?"

She looked again as she said it, and there was no mistake-

It was not very prominent, but the light caught it slantingly

and it was a slightly more glistening area on a black back-

ground. In flowing script it said, "What If."

Tie little man was smiling again. He nodded his head

rapidly and pointed to the words and then to himself several

times over.

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Norman said in an aside, "Must be his name."

Liwy replied, "Oh. how could that be anybody's name?'*

Norman put his paper aside. "I'll show you." He leaned

over and said, "Mr. If?"

The little man looked at him eagerly.

"Do you have the time, Mr. If?"

The little man took out a large watch from his vest pocket

and displayed the dial.

"Thank you, Mr. If," said Norman. And again in a whis-

per, "See, Liwy."

He would have returned to his paper, but me little man was

opening his box and raising a finger periodically as he did so,

to enforce their attention. It was just a slab of frosted'glass

that he removed—about six by nine inches in length and

width and perhaps an inch thick. It had beveled edges, rounded

comers, and was completely featureless. Then he took out a

little wire stand on which the glass slab fitted comfortably.

WHAT IF- 169

He rested the combination on his knees and looked proudly at

them.

Liwy said, with sudden excitement, "Heavens. Norman,

it's a picture of some sort."

Norman bent close. Then he looked at the little man.

"What's this? A new kind of television?"

The little man shook his head, and Liwy said, "No,

Norman, it's us."

"What?"

"Don't you see? That's the streetcar we met on. There you

are in me back seat wearing that old fedora I threw away

three years ago. And that's Georgette and myself getting on.

The fat lady's in the way. Now! Can't you see us?"

He muttered. "It's some sort of illusion."

"But you see it too, don't you? That's why he calls this

'What If.' It will show us what if. What if the streetcar hadn't

swerved ..."

She was sure of it. She was very excited and very sure of

it. As she looked at the picture in the glass slab, the late-

aftemoon sunshine grew dimmer and the inchoate chatter of

the passengers around and behind them began fading-

How she remembered that day. Norman knew Georgette

and had been about to surrender his seat to her when the car

swerved and threw Liwy into his lap. It was such a ridicu-

lously corny situation, but it had worked. She had been so

embarrassed that he was forced first into gallantry and then

into conversation. An introduction from Georgette was not

even necessary. By the time they got off the streetcar, he

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knew where she worked.

She could still remember Georgette glowering at her, sulk-

ily forcing a smile when they themselves separated. Georgette

said, "Norman seems to like you."

Liwy replied, "Oh. don't be silly! He was just being

polite. But he is nice-looking, isn't he?"

It was only six months after that that they married.

And now here was that same streetcar again, with Norman

and herself and Georgette. As she thought that, the smooth

train noises, the rapid clack-clack of the wheels, vanished

completely. Instead, she was in the swaying confines of the

170 Isaac Asimov

streetcar. She had just boarded it with Georgette at the previ-

ous stop.

Livvy shifted weight with the swaying of the streetcar, as

did forty others, sitting and standing, alt to the same monoto-

nous and rather ridiculous rhythm. She said, "Somebody's

motioning at you. Georgette. Do you know him?"

"At me?" Georgette directed a deliberately casual glance

over her shoulder. Her artificially long eyelashes flickered.

She said, "I know him a tittle. What do you suppose he

wants?"

"Let's find out," said Liwy. She felt pleased and a little

wicked.

Georgette had a well-known habit of hoarding her male

acquaintances, and it was rather fun to annoy her this way.

And besides, this one seemed quite . . . interesting.

She snaked past the line of standees, and Georgette fol-

lowed without enthusiasm. It was just as Liwy arrived oppo-

site the young man's seal that the streetcar lurched heavily as

it rounded a curve. Liwy snatched desperately in the direc-

tion of the straps. Her fingertips caught and she held on. It

was a long moment before she could breathe. For some

reason, it had seemed that there were no straps close enough

to be reached. Somehow, she felt that by all the laws of

nature she should have fallen.

The young man did not look at her. He was smiling at

Georgette and rising from his seat. He had astonishing eye-

brows that gave him a rather competent and self-confident

appearance. Liwy decided that she definitely liked him.

Georgette was saying, "Oh no, don't bother. We're getting

off in about two stops."

They did. Liwy said, "I thought we were going to Sach's."

"We are. There's just something I remember having to

attend to here. It won't take but a minute."

"Next stop. Providence!" the loudspeakers were blaring.

The train was slowing and the world of the past had shrunk

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itself into the glass slab once more. The little man was" still

smiling at them.

Liwy turned to Norman. She felt a little frightened. "Were

you through all that, too?"

He said, "What happened to the time? We can't be rcach-

WHAT IF- 171

nig Providence yet?" He looked at his watch. "I guess we

are." Then, to Liwy, "You didn't fall that time."

"Then you did see it?" She frowned. "Now. that's like

Georgette- I'm sure there was no reason to get off the street-

car except to prevent my meeting you. How long had you

known Georgette before then, Norman?"

"Not very long. Just enough to be able to recognize her at

sight and to feel that I ought to offer her my seat."

Liwy curled her lip.

Norman gnnned, "You can't be jealous of a might-have-

been, kid. Besides, what difference would it have made? I'd

have been sufficiently interested in you to work out a way of

meeting you."

"You didn't even look at me."

*'I hardly had the chance."

"Then how would you have met me?"

"Some way. I don't know how. But you'll admit this is a

rather foolish argument we're having."

They were leaving Providence. Liwy felt a trouble in her

mind. The little man had been following their whispered

conversation, with only the loss of his smile to show that he

understood. She said to him. "Can you show us more?"

Norman interrupted, "Wait now, Liwy. What arc you

going to try to do?"

She said, "I want to see our wedding day. What it would

have been if I had caught the strap."

Norman was visibly annoyed. "Now, that's not fair. We

might not have been married on the same day, you know."

But she said. "Can you show it to me, Mr. If?" and the

little man nodded.

The slab of glass was coming alive again, glowing a little.

Then the light collected and condensed into figures. A tiny

sound of organ music was in Liwy's ears without there

actually being sound.

Norman said with relief, "Well, there I am. That's our

wedding. Arc you satisfied?"

The train sounds were disappearing again, and the last

thing Liwy heard was her own voice saying, "Yes, there you

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are. But where am /?"

172 Isaac Asimov

Livvy was well back in the pews. For a while she had not

expected to attend at all- In the past months she had drifted

further and further away from Georgette, without quite know-

ing why. She had heard of her engagement only through a

mutual friend, and, of course, it was to Norman. She remem-

bered very clearly that day, six months before, when she had

first seen him on the streetcar. It was the time Georgette had

so quickly snatched her out of sight. She had met him since

on several occasions, but each time Georgette was with him,

standing between.

Well, she had no cause for resentment; the man was certainly

none of hers. Georgette, she thought, looked more beautiful

than she really was. And he was very handsome indeed.

She felt sad and rather empty, as though something had

gone wrong—something that she could not quite outline in

her mind. Georgette had moved up the aisle without seeming

to see her, but earlier she had caught his eyes and smiled at

him. Livvy thought he had smiled in return.

She heard the words distantly as they drifted back to her,

"1 now pronounce you—"

The noise of the train was back. A woman swayed down the

aisle, herding a little boy back to their seals. There were

intermittent bursts of girlish laughter from a set of four

teenage girls halfway down the coach. A conductor hurried

past on some mysterious errand.

Livvy was frozenly aware of it all.

She sat there, staring straight ahead, while the trees outside

blended into a fuzzy, furious green and the telephone poles

galloped past.

She said, "It was she you married."

He stared at her for a moment and then one side of his

mouth quirked a little. He said lightly, "I didn't really,

Olivia. You're still my wife, you know. Just think about it

for a few minutes."

She turned to him. "Yes, you married me—because"! fell

in your lap. If I hadn't, you would have married Georgette. If

she hadn't wanted you, you would have married someone

else. You would have married anybody. So much for your

jigsaw-puzzle pieces."

WHAT IF- 173

Norman said very slowly, "Well—I'll—be—darned!" He

put both hands to his head and smoothed down the straight

hair over his ears where it had a tendency to tuft up. For the

moment it gave him the appearance of trying to hold his head

together. He said, "Now, look here, Livvy, you're making a

silly fuss over a stupid magician's trick. You can't blame me

for something I haven't done."

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"You would have done it."

"How do you know?"

"You've seen it."

"I've seen a ridiculous piece of—of hypnotism, I sup-

pose." His voice suddenly raised itself into anger. He turned

to the little man opposite. "Off with you, Mr. If, or whatever

your name is. Get out of here. We don't want you. Get out

before I throw your little trick out the window and you after

it."

Liwy yanked at his elbow. "Stop it- Stop it' You're in a

crowded train."

The little man shrank back into the corner of the seat as far

as he could go and held his little black bag behind him.

Norman looked at him, then at Livvy, then at the elderly lady

across the way who was regarding him with patent disapproval.

He turned pink and bit back a pungent remark. They rode

m a frozen silence to and through New London.

Fifteen minutes past New London. Norman said, "Livvy!"

She said nothing. She was looking out the window but saw

nothing but the glass.

He said again, "Liwy! Liwy! Answer me!"

She said dully, "What do you want?"

He said, "Look, this is all nonsense. I don't know how the

fellow does it, but even granting it's legitimate, you're not

being fair. Why stop where you did? Suppose 1 had married

Georgette, do you suppose you would have stayed single? For

all I know, you were already married at the time of my

supposed wedding. Maybe that's why I married Georgette."

"I wasn't married."

"How do you know?"

"1 would have been able to tell. I knew what my own

thoughts were."

"Then you would have been married within the next year."

174 Isaac Asimm

Liwy grew angrier. The fact that a sane remnant within

her clamored at the unreason of her anger did not soothe her.

It irritated her further, instead. She said, "And if I did, it

would be no business of yours, certainly."

"Of course it wouldn't. But it would make the point that in

the world of reality we can't be held responsible for the 'what

ifs.' "

Livvy's nostrils flared. She said nothing.

Norman said, "Look! You remember the big New Year's

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celebration at Winnie's place year before last?"

"I certainly do. You spilled a keg of alcohol all over me."

"That's beside the point, and besides, it was only a cock-

tail shaker's worth. What I'm trying to say is that Winnie is

just about your best friend and had been long before you

married me."

"What of it?"

"Georgette was a good friend of hers too, wasn't she?"

"Yes."

"All right, then. You and Georgette would have gone to

me party regardless of which one of you I had married. I

would have had nothing to do with it. Let him show us the

party as it would have been if I had married Georgette, and

I'll bet you'd be there with either your fiance or your husband."

Liwy hesitated. She felt honestly afraid of just that.

He said, "Are you afraid to take the chance?"

And that, of course, decided her. She turned on him furi-

ously. "No, I'm not! And I hope I am married- There's no

reason I should pine for you. What's more, I'd like to see

what happens when you spili the shaker all over Georgette.

She'll fill both your ears for you, and in public, loo. 1 know

her. Maybe you'll see a certain difference in the jigsaw

pieces then." She faced forward and crossed her arms angrily

and firmly across her chest.

Norman looked across at the little man. but there was no

need to say anything- The glass slab was on his lap already.

The sun slanted in from the west, and the white foam of hair

that topped his head was edged with pink.

Norman said tensely, "Ready?"

Liwy nodded and let the noise of the train slide away

again.

WHAT IF- 175

Liwy stood, a little flushed with recent cold, in the me

doorway. She had just removed her coat, with its sprinkling

of snow, and her bare arms were still rebelling at the touch of

open air.

She answered the shouts that greeted her with "Happy

New Years" of her own, raising her voice to make herself

heard over me squealing of the radio- Georgette's shrill tones

were almost the first thing she heard upon entering, and now

she steered toward her. She hadn't seen Georgette, or Nor-

man, in weeks.

Georgette lifted an eyebrow, a mannerism she had lately

cultivated, and said, "Isn't anyone with you, Olivia?" Her

eyes swept the immediate surroundings and then returned to

Liwy.

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Liwy said indifferently, "I think Dick will be around

later. There was something or other he had to do first.'' She

felt as indifferent as she sounded.

Georgette smiled tightly. "Well, Norman's here. That ought

to keep you from being lonely, dear. At least, it's turned out

mat way before."

And as she said so, Norman sauntered in from the kitchen.

He had a cocktail shaker in his hand, and the rattling of ice

cubes castanetted his words. "Line up, you rioting revelers,

and get a mixture that will really revet your riots— Why,

Liwy!"

He walked toward her, grinning his welcome. "Where've

you been keeping yourself? I haven't seen you in twenty

years, seems like. What's the matter? Doesn't Dick want

anyone else to see you?"

"Fill my glass, Norman," said Georgette sharply.

"Right away," he said, not looking at her. "Do you want

one too, Liwy? I'll get you a glass." He turned, and every-

thing happened at once.

Liwy cried. "Watch out!" She saw it coming, even had a

vague feeling that all this had happened before, but it played

itself out inexorably. His heel caught the edge of the carpet;

he lurched, tried to right himself, and lost the cocktail shaker.

It seemed to jump out of his hands, and a pint of ice-cold

liquor drenched Liwy from shoulder to hem.

•Kt-

176 Isaac Asimov

She stood there, gasping, The noises muted about her, and

for a few intolerable moments she made futile brushing ges-

tures at her gown, while Norman kept repeating. "Damna-

tion!" in rising tones.

Georgette said coolly, "It's too bad, Livvy. Just one of

those things. I imagine the dress can't be very expensive."

Livvy turned and ran. She was in the bedroom, which was

at least empty and relatively quiet. By the light of the fringe-

shaded lamp on the dresser, she poked among the coats on

the bed, looking for her own.

Norman had come in behind her. "Look, Livvy, don't pay

any attention lo what she said. I'm really devilishly sorry. I'll

pay—"

"That's all right. It wasn't your fault." She blinked rap-

idly and didn't look at him. "I'll just go home and change."

"Are you coming back?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"Look, Livvy . . ." His warm fingers were on her

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shoulders—

Livvy felt a queer tearing sensation deep inside her, as

though she were ripping away from clinging cobwebs and—

—and me train noises were back.

Something did go wrong with the time when she was in

there—in the slab. It was deep twilight now. The train lights

were on. But it didn't matter. She seemed to be recovering

from the wrench inside her.

Norman was rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

"What happened?"

Livvy said, "It just ended. Suddenly."

Norman said uneasily, "You know, we'll be putting into

New Haven soon." He looked at his watch and shook his head.

Livvy said wonderingly, "You spilled it on me."

"Well, so I did in real life."

"But in real life I was your wife. You ought to have

spilled it on Georgette this time. Isn't that queer?" But she

was thinking of Norman pursuing her; his hands on her

shoulders. . . .

She looked up at him and said with warm satisfaction, "I

wasn't married."

WHAT IF- 177

•s-

"No, you weren't. But was that Dick Reinhardt you were

going around with?"

"Yes."

"You weren't planning to marry him, were you, Livvy?"

"Jealous, Norman?^

Norman looked confused. "Of that? Of a slab of glass? Of

course not."

"I don't think I would have married him."

Norman said, "You know, I wish it hadn't ended when it

did. There was something that was about to happen, I think."

He stopped, then added slowly, "It was as though I would

rather have done it to anybody else in the room."

"Even to Georgette."

"I wasn't giving two thoughts to Georgette. You don't

believe me, I suppose."

"Maybe 1 do." She looked up at him. "I've been silly,

Norman. Let's—let's live our real life. Let's not play with all

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the things that just might have been."

But he caught her hands. "No, Livvy. One last rime. Let's

see what we would have been doing right now, Livvy! This

very minute! If I had married Georgette."

Livvy was a little frightened. "Let's not, Norman." She

was thinking of his eyes, smiling hungrily at her as he held

the shaker, while Georgette stood beside her, unregarded.

She didn't want to know what happened afterward. She just

wanted this life now, this good life.

New Haven came and went.

Norman said again, "I want to try, Livvy.'*

She said, "If you want to, Norman." She decided fiercely

that it wouldn't matter. Nothing would matter. Her hands

reached out and encircled his arm. She held it tightly, and

while she held it she thought: "Nothing in the make-believe

can take him from me."

Norman said to the little man, "Set *em up again."

In the yellow light the process seemed to be slower. Gently

the frosted slab cleared, tike clouds being torn apart and

dispersed by an unfelt wind.

Norman was saying, "There's something wrong. That's

just the two of us. exactly as we are now."

He was right. Two little figures were sitting in a train on

178 Isaac Asimov

the seats which were farthest toward the front. The field was

enlarging now—they were merging into it. Norman's voice

was distant and fading.

"It's the same train," he was saying. "The window in

back is cracked just as—"

Liwy was blindingly happy. She said, "I wish we were in

New York."

He said, "It will be less than an hour, darling." Then he

said, "I'm going to kiss you." He made a movement, as

though he were about to begin.

"Not here! Oh, Norman, people are looking."

Norman drew back. He said, "We should have taken a taxi."

"From Boston to New York?"

"Sure. The privacy would have been worth it."

She laughed. "You're funny when you try to act ardent."

"It isn't an act." His voice was suddenly a little somber.

"It's not just an hour, you know. 1 feel as though I've been

waiting five years."

"I do, too."

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"Why couldn't I have met you first? It was such a waste."

"Poor Georgette," Liwy sighed.

Norman moved impatiently. "Don't be sorry for her, Liwy.

We never really made a go of it. She was glad to get rid of

me."

"I know that. That's why I say 'Poor Georgette.' I'm just

sorry for her for not being able to appreciate what she had."

"Well, see to it that you do," he said. "See to it that

you're immensely appreciative, infinitely appreciative—or more

than that, see that you're at least half as appreciative as I am

of what I've got." '

"Or else you'll divorce me, too?"

"Over my dead body," said Norman.

Liwy said, "It's all so strange. I keep thinking; 'What if

you hadn't spilt the cocktails on me that time at the party?'

You wouldn't have followed me out; you wouldn't have told

me; I wouldn't have known. It would have been so different

. . . everything."

"Nonsense. It would have been just the same. It would

have all happened another time."

"1 wonder," said Liwy softly.

WHAT IF- 179

Train noises merged into train noises. City lights flickered

outside, and the atmosphere of New York was about them.

The coach was astir with travelers dividing the baggage among

themselves.

Liwy was an island in the turmoil until Norman shook her.

She looked at him and said, "The jigsaw pieces fit after

all."

He said, "Yes."

She put a hand on his. "But it wasn't good, just the same-

1 was very wrong. I thought that because we had each other.

we should have all the possible each others. But all the

possibles are none of our business. The real is enough. Do

you know what 1 mean?"

He nodded.

She said, "There are millions of other what ifs. I don't

want to know what happened in any of them. I'll never say

*What if again "

Norman said, "Relax, dear. Here's your coat." And he

reached for the suitcases.

Liwy said with sudden sharpness, "Where's Mr. If?"

Norman turned slowly to the empty seat that faced them.

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Together they scanned the rest of the coach.

"Maybe," Norman said, "he went into the next coach."

"But why? Besides, he wouldn't leave his hat." And she

bent to pick it up.

Norman said, "What hat?"

And Liwy stopped her fingers hovering over nothingness.

She said, "It was here—I almost touched it." She straight-

ened and said, "Oh. Norman, what if—"

Norman put a finger on her mouth. "Darling . . ."

She said, "I'm sorry. Here, let me help you with the

suitcases."

The train dived into the tunnel beneath Park Avenue, and

me noise of the wheels rose to a roar.

MILLENNIUM

by Frednc Brown

Hades was Hell, Satan thought; that was why he loved the

place. He leaned forward across his gleaming desk and flicked

the switch of the intercom.

"Yes, Sire," said the voice of Lilith. his secretary.

"How many today?"

"Four of them. Shall I send one of them in?"

"Yes—wait. Any of them look as though he might be an

unselfish one?"

"One of them does. I mink. But so what, Sire? There's

one chance in billions of his making The Ultimate Wish."

Even at the sound of those last words Satan shivered

despite the heat. It was his most constant, almost his only

worry that someday someone might make The Ultimate Wish,

the ultimate, unselfish wish. And then it would happen; Satan

would find himself chained for a thousand years, and out of

business for the rest of eternity after that.

But Lilith was right, he told himself.

Only about one person out of a thousand sold his soul for

the granting of even a minor unselfish wish, and it might be

millions of years yet, or forever, before the ultimate one was

made. Thus far, no one had even come close to it.

"Okay, Lil," he said. "Just the same, send him in

first; I'd rather get it over with." He flicked off the

intercom.

The little man who came through the big doorway certainly

didn't look dangerous; he looked plain scared.

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Satan frowned at him. "You know the terms?"

"Yes," said the little man. "At least, I think I do. In

180

MILLENNIUM is I

exchange for your granting any one wish I make, you get my

soul when i die. Is that right?"

"Right. Your wish?"

"Well," said the little man, "I've thought it out pretty

carefully and—"

"Get to the point. I'm busy. Your wish?"

"Well ... I wish that, without any change whatsover in

myself, I become the most evil, stupid and miserable person

on earth."

Satan screamed.

DREAMS ARE SACRED

by Peter Pbillips

When I was seven, I read a ghost story and babbled of the

consequent nightmare to my father.

"They were coming for me. Pop," I sobbed. "1 couldn't

run, and I couldn't stop 'em, great big things with teeth and

claws like the pictures in the book, and I couldn't wake

myself up. Pop, I couldn't come awake."

Pop had a few quiet cuss words for folks who left such

things around for a kid to pick up and read; then he took my

hand gently in his own great paw and led me into the six-acre

pasture.

He was wise, with the canny insight into human motives

that the soil gives to a man. He was close to Nature and the

hearts and minds of men, for all men ultimately depend on

the good earth for sustenance and life.

He sat down on a stump and showed me a big gun. I know

now it was a heavy Service Colt .45. To my child eyes, it

was enormous. 1 had seen shotguns and sporting rifles before,

but this was to be held in one hand and fired. Gosh, it was

heavy. It dragged my thin arm down with its sheer, grim

weight when Pop showed me how to hold it.

Pop said: "It's a killer. Pete- There's nothing in the whole

wide world or out of it that a slug from Billy here won't stop.

It's killed lions and tigers and men. Why, if you aim right,

it'll stop a charging elephant. Believe me, son, there's noth-

ing you can meet in dreams that Billy here won't stop. And

he'll come into your dreams with you from now on, so

there's no call to be scared of anything."

He drove that deep into my receptive subconscious. At the

182

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DREAMS ARE SACRED 183

end of half an hour, my wrist ached abominably from the

kick of that Colt. But I'd seen heavy slugs tear through

two-inch teakwood and mild steel plating. I'd looked along

that barrel, pulled the trigger, felt the recoil rip up my arm

and seen the fist-size hole blasted through a sack of wheat.

And that night, 1 slept with Billy under my pillow. Before I

slipped into dreamland, I'd felt again the cool, reassuring

butt.

When the Dark Things came again, I was almost glad. I

was ready for them. Billy was there, lighter than in my

waking hours—or maybe my dream-hand was bigger—but

just as powerful. Two of the Dark Things crumpled and fell

as Billy roared and kicked, then the others turned and fled.

Then I was chasing them, laughing, and firing from the

hip.

Pop was no psychiatrist, but he'd found the perfect antidote

to fear—the projection into the subconscious mind of a common-

sense concept based on experience.

Twenty years later, the same principle was put into opera-

tion scientifically to save the sanity—and perhaps the life—of

Marsham Craswell.

"Surely, you've heard of him?" said Stephen Blakiston, a

college friend of mine who'd majored in psychiatry.

"Vaguely," I said. "Science fiction, fantasy . . . I've read

a little. Screwy."

"Not so. Some good stuff." Steve waved a hand round the

bookshelves of his private office in the new Pentagon Mental

Therapy Hospital, New York State. I saw multicolored maga-

zine backs, row on row of mem. "I'm a fan," he said

simply. "Would you call me screwy?"

I backed out of that one. I'm just a sports columnist, but I

knew Blakiston was tops in two fields—the psycho stuff and

electronic therapy.

Steve said: "Some of it's the old 'peroo, of course, but the

level of writing is generally high and the ideas thought-

provoking. For ten years, Marsham has been one of the most

prolific and best-loved writers in the game.

"Two years ago, he had a serious illness, didn't give

himself time to convalesce properly before he waded into

writing again. He tried to reach his previous output, tending

184 Peter Phtllips

more and more towards pure fantasy. Beautiful in parts, sheer

rubbish sometimes.

"He forced his imagination to work, set himself a wordage

routine. The tension became too great. Something snapped.

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Now he's here."

Steve got up, ushered me out of his office- "I'll take you

to see him. He won't see you. Because the thing that snapped

was his conscious control over his imagination. It went into

high gear, and now instead of writing his stories, he's living

them—quite literally, for him.

"Far-off worlds, strange creatures, weird adventures—the

detailed phantasmagoria of a brilliant mind driving itself into

insanity through the sheer complexity of its own invention.

He's escaped from the harsh reality of his strained existence

into a dream world. But he may make it real enough to kill

himself.

"He's the hero, of course," Steve continued, opening the

door into a private ward. "But even heroes sometimes die-

My fear is that his morbidly overactive imagination working

through his. subconscious mind will evoke in this dream world

in which he is living a situation wherein the hero must die.

"You probably know that the sympathetic magic of witch-

craft acts largely through the imagination. A person imagines

he is being hexed to death—and dies. If Marsham Craswell

imagines that one of his fantastic creations kills the hero—

himself—then he just won't wake up again.

"Drugs won't touch him. Listen."

Steve looked at me across Marsham's bed. I leaned down

to hear the mutterings from the writer's bloodless lips.

"... We must search me Plains of Istak for the Diamond.

I, Multan, who now have the Sword, will lead thee; for the

Snake must die and only in virtue of the Diamond can his

death be encompassed- Come."

Craswell's right hand, lying limp on the coverlet, twitched.

He was beckoning his followers.

"Still the Snake and the Diamond?" asked Steve. "He's

been living that dream for two days. We only know what's

happening when he speaks in his role of hero. Often it's quite

unintelligible. Sometimes a spark of consciousness filters

through, and he fights to wake up. It's pretty horrible to

DREAMS ARE SACRED 185

watch him squirming and trying to pull himself back into

reality. Have you ever tried to pull yourself out of a night-

mare and failed?"

It was then that I remembered Billy, the Colt .45. I told

Steve about it, back in his office.

He said: "Sure. Your Pop had the right idea. In fact, I'm

hoping to save Marsham by an application of the same princi-

ple. To do it, 1 need the cooperation of someone who com-

bines a lively imagination with a severely practical streak,

boss-sense—and a sense of humor- Yes—you."

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"Uh? How can 1 help? I don't even know the guy."

"You will," said Steve, and the significant way he said it

sent a trickle of ice water down my back. "You're going to

get closer to Marsham Craswell than one man has ever been

to another.

"I'm going to project you—the essential you, that is, your

mind and personality—into Craswell's tortured brain."

I made pop-eyes, then thumbed at the magazine-lined wall.

"Too much of yonder, brother Steve," I said. "What you

need is a drink."

Steve lit his pipe, draped his long legs over the arm of his

chair. "Miracles and witchcraft are out. What 1 propose to do

is basically no more miraculous than the way your Pop put

that gun into your dreams so you weren't afraid anymore. It's

merely more complex scientifically.

"You've heard of the encephalograph? You know it picks

up me surface neural currents of the brain, amplifies and

records them, showing the degree—or absence—of mental

activity. It can't indicate the kind or quality of such activity

save in very general terms. By using comparison-graphs and

other statistical methods to analyze its data, we can some-

times diagnose incipient insanity, for instance. But that's

all—until we started work on it, here at Pentagon.

"We improved the penetration and induction pickup and

needled the selectivity until we could probe any known por-

tion of the brain. What we were looking for was a recogniz-

able pattern among the millions of tiny electric currents that

go to make up the imagery of thought, so that if the subject

thought of something—a number, maybe—the instruments

would react accordingly, give a pattern for it that would be

repeated every time he thought of that number.

186

Peter Philtips

"We failed, of course. The major part of the brain acts as a

unity, no one part being responsible for either simple or

complex imagery, but the activity of one portion inducing

activity in other portions—with the exception of those parts

dealing with automatic impulses. So if we were to get a

pattern we should need thousands of pickups—a practical

impossibility. It was as if we were trying to divine the pattern

of a colored sweater by putting one tiny stitch of it under a

microscope.

"Paradoxically, our machine was too selective. We needed.

not a probe, but an all-encompassing field, receptive simulta-

neously to the multitudinous currents that made up a thought

pattern.

"We found such a field. But we were no further forward.

In a sense, we were back where we started from—because to

analyze what the field picked up would have entailed the use

of thousands of complex instruments. We had amplified

thought, but we could not analyze it.

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"There was only one single instrument sufficiently sensi-

tive and complex to do that—another human brain."

1 waved for a pause. "I'm home," 1 said. "You'd got a

thought-reading machine."

"Much more than that. When we tested it the other day,

one of my assistants stepped up the polarity reversal of the

field—that is, the frequency—by accident. I was acting as

analyst and the subject was under narcosis.

"Instead of 'hearing' the dull incoherencies of his thoughts,

I became part of them. I was inside that man's brain. It was a

nightmare world. He wasn't a clear thinker. I was aware of

my own individuality. . . . When he came round, he went for

me bald-headed. Said I'd been trespassing inside his head. '

"With Marsham, it'll be a different matter. The dream

world of his coma is detailed, as real as he used to make

dream worlds to his readers."

"Hold it." 1 said. "Why don't you take a peek?"

Steve Btakiston smiled and gave me a high-vollage shot

from his big gray eyes. "Three good reasons: I've soaked in

me sort of stuff he dreams up, and there's a danger that 1

would become identified too closely with him. What he needs

is a salutary dose of common sense. You're the man for that,

you cynical old whiskey-hound.

DREAMS ARE SACRED 187

"Secondly, if my mind gave way under the impress of his

imagination, i wouldn't be around to treat myself; and thirdly,

when—and if—he comes round, he'll want to kill the man

who's been heterodyning his dreams. You can scram. But 1

want to stay and see the results."

"Sorting that out. I gather there's a possibility that I shall

wake up as a candidate for a bed in the next ward?"

"Not unless you let your mind go under. And you won't.

You've got a cast-iron nongullibility complex. Just foot around

in your usual iconoclastic manner. Your own imagination's

pretty good, judging by some of your fight reports lately."

I got up, bowed politely, said; "Thank you, my friend.

That reminds me—I'm covering the big fight at the Garden

tomorrow night. And I need sieep. It's late. So long."

Steve unfolded and reached the door ahead of me.

"Please," he said, and argued. He can argue. And I

couldn't duck those big eyes of his. And he is—or was—my

pal. He said it wouldn't take long—just like a dentist—and he

smacked down every "if I thought up.

Ten minutes later, I was lying on a twin bed next to that

occupied by a silent, white-faced Marsham Craswell. Steve

was leaning over the writer adjusting a chrome-steel bowl like

a hair drier over the man's head. An assistant was fixing me

up the same way.

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Cables ran from the bowls to a movable arm overhead and

thence to a wheeled machine that looked like something from

the Whacky Science Section of the World's Fair, A.D. 2,000.

I was bursting with questions, but the only ones that would

come out seemed crazily irrelevant-

"What do 1 say to this guy? 'Good morning, and how are

all your little complexes today'? Do I introduce myself?"

"Just say you're Pete Parnell, and play it off the cuff,"

said Steve. "You'll see what I mean when you get there."

Get there. That hit me—the idea of making a journey into

some nut's nut. My stomach drew itself up to softball size.

"What's the proper dress for a visit like this? Formal?" I

- asked. At least, 1 think 1 said that. It didn't sound like my

voice.

"Wear what you like."

^ "Uh-huh. And how do I know when to draw my visit to a

•^ close?"

188 Peier Phitlips

Steve came round to my side. "If you haven't snapped

Craswell out of it within an hour, I'll turn off the current."

He stepped back to the machine- "Happy dreams."

1 groaned.

It was hot. Two high summers rolled into one. No, two suns,

blood-red, stark in a brazen sky. Should be cool underfoot—

soft green turf. pool-table smooth to the far horizon- But it

wasn't grass. Dust. Burning green dust—

The gladiator stood ten feet away, eyes glaring in disbelief.

Al! of six-four high, great bronzed arms and legs, knotted

muscles, a long shining sword in his right hand.

But his face was unmistakable.

This was where I took a good hold of myself. I wanted to

sW6-

"Boy!" I said. "Do you tan quickly' Couple of minutes

ago, you were as white as the bedsheet."

The gladiator shaded his eyes from the twin suns. "Is this

yet another guise of the magician Garor to drive me insane—an

Earthman here, on the Plains of Islak? Or am I already—

mad?" His voice was deep, smoothly modulated.

My own was perfectly normal. Indeed, after the initial

effort, I felt perfectly normal, except for the heat.

I said: "That's the growing idea where I've just come

from—that you're going nuts."

You know those half-dreams, just on the verge of sleep, in

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which you can control your own imagery to some extent?

That's how 1 felt. I knew intuitively what Steve was getting at

when he said 1 could play it off the cuff. 1 looked down.

Tweed suit, brogues—naturally. That's what I was weaning

when I last looked at myself. 1 had no reason to think I was

wearing—and therefore to be wearing—anything else. But

something cooler was indicated in this heat, generated by

Marsham Craswell's imagination.

Something like his own gladiator costume, perhaps.

Sandals—fine. There were my feet—in sandals-

Then I laughed. 1 had nearly fallen into the error of accept-

ing his imagination.

"Do you mind if I switch off one of those suns?" I asked

politely. "It's a little hot."

DREAMS ARE SACRED 189

I gave one of the suns a very dirty look. it disappeared.

r The gladiator raised his sword. "You are—Garor!" he

cried. "But your witchery shall not avail you against the

Sword!"

He rushed forward. The shining blade cleaved the air

towards my skull.

I thought very, very fast.

The sword clanged, and streaked off at a sharp tangent

from my G.I. brain-pan protector. I'd last worn that homely

piece of hardware in the Argonne, and I knew it would stop a

mere sword. 1 took it off.

"Now listen to me, Marsham Craswell," I said. "My

name's Pete Pamell, of the Sunday Star, and—"

Craswell looked up from his sword, chest heaving, startled

eyes bright as if with recognition. "Wait! 1 know now who

you are—Nelpar Retrep. Man of the Seven Moons, come to

fight with me against the Snake and his ungodly disciple,

magician and sorceress, Garor. Welcome, my friend!"

He held out a huge bronzed hand. I shook it.

It was obvious that, unable to rationalize—or irrationalize—

me, he was writing me into the plot of his dream! Right. It

had been amusing so far. I'd string along for a while. My

imagination hadn't taken a licking—yet.

Craswell said: "My followers, the great-hearted Dok-men

of the Blue Hills, have just been slain in a gory battle. We

were about to brave the many perils of the Plains of Istak in

our quest for the Diamond—but all this. of course, you

know."

"Sure," I said. "What now?"

Craswell turned suddenly, pointed- "There." he muttered.

"A sight that strikes terror even into my heart—Garor returns

lo. the battle, at the head of her dread Legion of Lakros,

beasts of the Overworid, drawn into evil symbiosis with alien

intelligences—invulnerable to men, but not to the Sword, or

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to me mighty weapons of Nelpar of the Seven Moons. We

shall fight them alone'"

Racing across the vast plain of green dust towards us was a

horde of ... er ... creatures. My vocabulary can't cope

fully with Craswell's imagination. Gigantic, shimmering things,

drooling thick ichor, half-flying, half-lolloping. Enough to

190 Peter Philiips

say I looked around for a washbasin to spit in. I found one,

with soap and towels complete, but I pushed it over, looked

at a patch of green dust and thought hard.

The outline of the phone booth wavered a little before I

could fix it. I dashed inside, dialed "Police H.Q.? Riot

squad here—and quick!"

i stepped outside the booth. Craswell was whirling the

Sword round his head, yelling war cries as he faced the

onrushing monsters.

From the other direction came me swelling scream of a

police siren- Half a dozen good, solid patrol cars screeched to

a dust-spurting slop outside the phone booth. I don't have to

think hard to get a New York cop car fixed in my mind.

These were just right. And the first man out, running to my

side and patting his cap on firmly, was just right, too.

Michael O'Faolin, the biggest, toughest, nicest cop I know.

"Mike," I said, pointing. "Fix 'em."

*'Shure, an' it's an aisy job fthe bhoys I've brought

along," said Mike, hitching his belt.

He deployed his men.

Craswell looked at them fanning out to take the charge, then

staggered back towards me, hand over his eyes. "Madness!"

be shouted. "What madness is this? What are you doing?"

For a moment, the whole scene wavered. The lone red sun

blinked out. the green desert became a murky transparency

through which I caught a split-second glimpse of white beds

with two figures lying on mem. Then Craswell uncovered his

eyes.

The monsters began to diminish some twenty yards from

the riot squad. By the time they got to the cops, they ,were

man-size, and very amenable to discipline—enforced by raps

over their homy noggins with nightsticks. They were bundled

into the squad cars, which set off again over die plains.

Michael O'Faolin remained. I said: "Thanks, Mike. 1 may

have a couple of spare tickets for the big fight tomorrow

night. See you later."

"Just what I was wanrin', Pete. *Tis me day off. Now,

how do 1 get home?"

1 opened the door of me phone booth. "Right inside." He

stepped in. I turned to Craswell.

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DREAMS ARE SACRED 191

"Mighty magic, 0 Nelpar!" he explained. "To creatures

ofGaror's mind you opposed creatures of your own!"

He'd woven the whole incident into his plot already.

"We must go forward now. Nelpar of the Seven Moons—

forward to the Citadel of the Snake, a thousand lokspans over

the burning Plains of Istak."

"How about the Diamond?"

"The Diamond—?"

Evidently, he'd run so far ahead of himself getting me

fixed into the landscape that he'd forgotten ail about the

Diamond that could kill the Snake. I didn't remind him.

However, a thousand lokspans over the burning plains

sounded a little too far for walking, whatever a lokspan might

be.

I said: "Why do you make things tough for yourself,

Craswell?"

"The name," he said with tremendous dignity, "is Multan."

"Multan, Sultan, Shashlik, Dikkidam, Hammaneggs or

whatever polysyllabic pooh-bah you wish to call yourself—I

still ask, why make things lough for yourself when there's

plenty of cabs around? Just whistle."

i whistled. The Purple Cab swung in, perfect to the last

detail, including a hulking-backed, unshaven driver, dead

ringer for the impolite gorilla who'd brought me out to Penta-

gon that evening.

There is nothing on earth quite so unutterably prosaic as a

New York Purple Cab with that sort of driver. The sight upset

Craswell, and the green plains wavered again while he strug-

gled to fit the cab into his dream.

"What new magic is this! You are indeed mighty, Nelpar!"

He got in. But he was trembling with the effort to maintain

die structure of this world into which he had escaped, against

my deliberate attempts to bring it crashing round his ears and

restore him to colorless—but sane—normality.

At this stage, I felt curiously sorry for him; but 1 realized

mat it might only be permitting him to reach the heights of

creative imagery before dousing him with the sponge from

me cold bucket that 1 could jerk his drifting ego back out of

dreamland.

It was dangerous thinking. Dangerous—for me.

192 Peter Phiilips

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Craswell's thousand lokspans appeared to be the equivalent

of ten blocks. Or perhaps he wanted to gloss over the mun-

dane near-reality of a cab ride. He pointed forward, past the

driver's shoulder: "The Citadel of the Snake!"

To me, it looked remarkably like a wedding cake designed

by Dati in red plastic: ten stories high, each story a platter

half a mile thick, each platter diminishing in size and offset to

the one beneath so that the edifice spiraled towards the glossy

sky.

The cab rolled into its vast shadow, stopped beneath the

sheer, blank precipice of the base platter, which might have

been two miles in diameter. Or three. Or four. What's a mile

or two among dreamers?

Craswell hopped out quickly. I got out on the driver's side.

The driver said: "Dollar-fifty.'*

Square, unshaven jaw, low forehead, dirty-red hair strag-

gling under his cap. I said: "Comes high for a short trip."

"Lookit the clock," he growled, squirming his shoulders.

**Do I come out and get it?"

1 said sweetly: "Go to hell."

Cab and driver shot downward through the green sand with

the speed of an express elevator. The hole closed up. The

times I've wanted to do just that—

Craswell was regarding me open-mouthed. I said: "Sorry.

Now I'm being escapist, too. Get on with the plot."

He muttered something 1 didn't catch, strode across to the

red wall in which a crack, meeting place of mighty gates, had

appeared, and raised his sword.

"Open, Garor! Your doom is nigh.-Multan and Nelpar are

here to brave me terrors of this Citadel and free the^ world

from the tyranny of the Snake!" He hammered at the crack

with the sword-hilt.

"Not so loud," I murmured. "You'll wake the neighbors.

Why not use the bell-push?" 1 put my thumb on the button

and pressed. The towering gates swung slowly open.

"You . . . you have been here before—"

"Yes—after my last lobster supper." I bowed. "After

you."

1 followed him into a great, echoing tunnel with fluorescent

walls. The gates closed behind us. He paused and looked at

DREAMS ARE SACRED 193

me with an odd gleam in his eyes. A gleam of—sanity. And

there was anger in the set of his lips. Anger for me, not Garor

or the Snake.

It's not nice to have someone trampling all over your ego-

Pride is a tiger—even in dreams. The subconscious, as Steve

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had explained to me, is a function or state of the brain, not a

small part of it. In thwarting Craswelt, I was disparaging not

merely his dream, but his very brain, sneering at his intellec-

tual integrity, at his abilities as an imaginative writer.

In a brief moment of rationality, I believe he was strangely

aware of this.

He said quietly: "You have limitations, Nelpar. Your

outward-turning eyes are blind to the pain of creation; to you

the crystal stars are spangles on the dress of a scarlet woman,

and you mock the God-blessed unreason that would make life

more than the crawling of an animal -from womb to grave. In

tearing the veil from mystery, you destroy not mystery—for

there are many mysteries, a million veils, world within and

beyond worlds—but beauty. And in destroying beauty, you

destroy your soul."

These last words, quiet as they sounded, were caught up by

the curving walls-of the huge tunnel, amplified then dimin-

ished in pulsing repetition, loud then soft, a surging hypnotic

echo: "Destroy your SOUL, DESTROY your soul. SOUL—"

Craswell pointed with his sword. His voice was exultant.

"There is a Veil, Nelpar—and you must tear it lest it become

your shroud! The Mist—the Sentient Mist of the Citadel!"

I'll admit that, for a few seconds, he'd had me a little

groggy. I felt—subdued. And I understood for the first time

his power as a word-spinner.

I knew that it was vital for me to reassert myself.

A thick, gray mist was rolling, wreathing slowly towards

us, filling the tunnel to roof-height, puffing out thick, groping

tentacles.

"It lives on Life itself," Craswelt shouted. "It feeds, not

on flesh, but on the vital principle that animates all flesh. I

am safe, Nelpar, for I have the Sword. Can your magic save

you?''

"Magic!" I said. "There's no gas invented yet that'll get

through a Mark 8 mask."

194 Peter Philiips

Gas-drill—face-piece first, straps behind the ears. No, I

hadn't forgotten the old routine.

I adjusted the mask comfortably. "And if it's not gas," I

added, "this will fix it." I felt over my shoulder, undipped a

nozzle, brought it round into the "ready" position.

I had only used a one-man flame-thrower once—in training—

but the experience was etched on my memory.

This was a deluxe model. At the first thirty-foot oily,

searing blast, the Mist curled in on itself and rolled back the

way it had come. Only quicker.

I shucked off the trappings. "You were in the Army for a

while, Craswell. Remember?"

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The shining translucency of the walls dimmed suddenly,

and beyond them I glimpsed, as in a movie close-up through

an unfocused projector, the square, intense face of Steve

Blakiston.

Then the walls re-formed, and Craswell, still the bronzed.

naked-limbed giant of his imagination, was looking at me

again, frowning, worried. "Your words are strange, 0 Nelpar.

It seems you are master of mysteries beyond even my

knowing."

I put on the sort of face ! use when die sports editor queries

my expenses, aggrieved, pleading. "Your trouble, Craswell,

is that you don't want to know. You just won't remember.

That's why you're here. But life isn't bad if you oil it a little.

Why not snap out of this and come with me for a drink?"

"I do not understand," he muttered. "But we have a

mission to perform. Follow." And he strode off.

Mention of drink reminded me. There was nothing wrong

with my memory. And that tunnel was as hot as the green

desert. 1 remembered a very small pub just off the streetcar

depot end of Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow, Scotland. A ginger-

whiskered ancient, an exile from the Highlands, who'd lis-

tened to me enthusing over a certain brand of Scotch. "If ye

think that's guid, mon, ye'U no' tasted die brew from ma own

private deestillery. Smack yer lips ower this, laddie—" And

he'd produced an antique silver flask and poured a generous

measure of golden whisky into my glass. I had never tasted

such mellow nectar before or since. Until I was walking

down the tunnel behind Craswell,

DREAMS ARE SACRED 195

I nearly envisaged the glass, but changed my mind in time

to make it the antique flask. 1 raised it to my lips. Imagine

don's a wonderful riling.

Craswell was talking. I'd nearly forgotten him.

". . , near the Hall of Madness, where strange music

assaults the brain, weird harmonies that enchant, then kill,

rupturing the very cells by a mixture of subsonic and super-

sonic frequencies. Listen!"

We had reached the end of the tunnel and stood at the top

of a slope which, broadening, ran gently downward, veiled

by a blue haze. like the smoke from fifty million cigarettes,

filling a vast circular hall. The haze eddied, moved by va-

grant, sluggish currents of air, and revealed on the farther

side, dwarfed by distance but obviously enormous, a complex

structure of pipes and consoles.

A dozen Mighty Wurlitzers rolled into one would have

appeared as a miniature piano at me foot of this towering

music machine.

At its many consoles which, even at that distance. I could

see consisted of at least half a dozen manuals each, were

multilimbed creatures—spiders or octopuses or Poliiollipops—1

didn't ask what Craswell called them—1 was listening.

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The opening bars were strange enough, but innocuous.

Then the multiple tones and harmonies began to swell in

volume. I picked out the curious, sweet harshness of oboes

and bassoons, rile eldritch, rising ululation of a thousand

violins, the keen shrilling of a hundred demonic flutes, the

sobbing of many 'cellos. That's enough. Music's my hobby,

and I don't want to get carried away in describing how dial

crazy symphony nearly carried me away.

But if Craswell ever reads this, I'd like him to know that

he missed his vocation. He should have been a musician. His

dream music showed an amazing intuitive grasp of orchestra-

tion and harmonic theory. If he could do anything like it

consciously, he would be a great modern composer.

Yet not too much like it. Because it began to have the

effects he had warned about. The insidious rhythm and wild

melodies seemed to throb inside my head, setting up a vibra-

tion, a burning, in the brain tissue.

Imagine Puccini's "Recondita Armenia" reorchestrated by

196

Peter Phitlips

Stravinsky then rearranged by Honegger, played by fifty

symphony orchestras in the Hollywood Bowl, and you might

begin to get the idea.

I was getting too much of it. Did I say music was my

hobby? Certainly—but the only instrument 1 play is the har-

monica. Quite well, too. And with a microphone, I can make

lots of nice noise.

A microphone—and plenty of amplifiers. I pulled the har-

monica from my pocket, took a deep breath, and whooped

into "Tiger Rag," my favorite party-piece.

The stunning blast-wave of jubilant jazz, nffs, tiger-growls

and tremolo discords from the tiny mouth organ crashed into

the vast hall from the amplifiers, completely swamping

Craswell's mad music.

I heard his agonized shout even above the din. His tastes in

music were evidently not as catholic as mine. He didn't like

jazz.

The music machine quavered, the multilimbed organists.

ludicrous in their haste to escape from an unreal doom,

shrank, withered to scuttling black beetles; the lighting effects

that had sprayed a rich, unearthly effulgence over the con-

soles died away into pastel, blue gloom; then the great ma-

chine itself, caught in swirl upon wave of augmented chords

complemented and reinforced by its own outpourings, shiv-

ered into fragments, poured in a chaotic stream over the floor

of the hall.

I heard Craswell shout again, then the scene changed

abruptly. I assumed that, in his desire to blot out the trium-

phant paean of jazz from his mind, and perhaps in an uncon-

scious attempt to confuse me, he had skipped a part of his

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plot and, in the opposite of the flashback beloved of screen

writers, shot himself forward. We were—somewhere else.

Perhaps it was the inferiority complex I was inducing, or in

the transition he had forgotten how tall he was supposed to

be, but he was now a mere six feet, nearer my own height.

He was so hoarse, 1 nearly suggested a gargle. '*! . . . I

left you in the Hall of Madness. Your magic caused the roof

to collapse. I thought you were—killed."

So the flash-forward wasn't jusl an attempt to confuse me.

He'd tried to lose me. write me out of the script altogether.

DREAMS ARE SACRED 197

I shook my head. "Wishful thinking, Craswell old man," 1

said reproachfully. "You can't kill me off between chapters.

You see, I'm not one of your characters at all. Haven't you

grasped that yet? The only way you can get nd of me is by

waking up."

"Again you speak in riddles," he said, but there was tittle

confidence in his voice.

The place in which we stood was a great, high-vaulted

chamber. The lighting effects—as I was coming to expect—

were unusual and admirable—many colored shafts of radi-

ance from unseen sources, slowly moving, meeting and merging

at the farther end of the chamber in a white, circular blaze

which seemed to be suspended over a thronelike structure.

Craswell's size-concepts were stupendous. He'd either stud-

ied the biggest cathedrals in Europe, or he was reared inside

Grand Central Station. The throne was apparently a good

half-mile away, over a completely bare but softly resilient

floor. Yet it was coming nearer. We were not walking. I

looked at the walls, realized that the floor itself, a gigantic

endless belt, was carrying us along.

The slow, inexorable movement was impressive. I was

aware that Craswell was covertly glancing at me. He was

anxious that I should be impressed. I replied by speeding up

the belt a trifle. He didn't appear to notice.

He said: "We approach the Throne of the Snake, before

which, his protector and disciple, stands the female magician

and sorceress Garor. Against her, we shall need all your

strange skills, Nelpar, for she stands invulnerable within an

invisible shield of pure force.

"You must destroy that barrier, that I may slay her with

the Sword. Without her, the Snake, though her master and

self-proclaimed master of this world, is powerless, and he

will be at our mercy."

The belt came to a halt. We were at the foot of a broad

stairway leading to me throne itself, a massive metal platform

on which the Snake reposed beneath a brilliant ball of light.

The Snake was—a snake. Coil on coil of overgrown py-

thon, with an evil head me size of a football swaying slowly

from side to side.

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I spent little rime looking at it. I've seen snakes before.

198 Peter Phtllips

And there was something worth much more prolonged study

standing just below and slightly to one side of the throne.

Craswell's taste in feminine pulchritude was unimpeach-

able. I had half expected an ancient, withered horror, but if

Flo Ziegfeld had seen this baby, he'd have been scrambling

up those steps waving a contract, force shield or no force

shield, before you could get out the first glissando of a

wolf-whistle.

She was a tall, oval-faced, green-eyed brunette, with ev-

erything just so, and nothing much in the way of covering—a

scanty metal chest protector and a knee-length, filmy green

skirt. She had a tiny, delightful mole on her left cheek.

There was a curious touch of pride in Craswell's voice as

he said, rather unnecessarily: "We are here, Garor," and

looked at me expectantly.

The girl said: "Insolent fools—you are here to die."

Mm-m-m—that voice, as smooth and rich as a Piatigorski

'cello note. I was ready to give quite a lot of credit to

Craswell's imagination, but I couldn't believe that he'd dreamed

up this baby just like that. 1 guessed that she was modeled on

life; someone he knew; someone I'd like to know—someone

pulled out of the grab bag of memory in the same way as I

had produced Mike O'Faolin and that grubby-chinned cab

driver.

"A luscious dish," 1 said. "Remind me to ask you later

for the phone number of the original, Craswell."

Then 1 said and did something that I have since regretted.

It was not the behavior of a gentleman. 1 said: "But didn't

you know they were wearing skirts longer, this season?"

1 looked at the skirt. The hem line shot down to her ankles,

evening-gown length.

Outraged, Craswell glared at his girlfriend. The skirt be-

came knee-length. I made it fashionable again.

Then that skirt-hem was bobbing up and down between her

ankles and her knees like a crazy window blind. It was a

contest of wills and imaginations, with a very pretty pair of

well-covered tibiae as battleground. A fascinating sight, Garor's

beautiful eyes blazed with fury. She seemed to be strangely

aware of the misbecoming nature of the conflict.

Craswell suddenly uttered a ringing, petulant howl of anger

DREAMS ARE SACRED 199

and frustration—a score of lusty-lunged infants whose rattles

had been simultaneously snatched from them couldn't have

made more noise—and the intriguing scene was erased from

view in an eruption of jet-black smoke.

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When it cleared, Craswell was still in the same relative

position but his sword was gone, his gladiator rig was torn

and scorched, and thin trickles of blood streaked his muscular

arms.

I didn't like the way he was looking at me. I'd booted his

superego pretty hard that time.

I said: "So you couldn't take it. You've skipped a chapter

again. Wise me up on what I've missed, will you?" Some-

how it didn't sound as flippant as I intended.

He spoke incisively. "We have been captured and con-

demned to die, Netpar. We are in the Pit of the Beast, and

nothing can save us, for I have been deprived of the Sword

and you of your magic.

"The ravening Jaws of the Beast cannot be stayed. It is the

end, Nelpar. The End—"

His eyes, large, faintly luminous, looked into mine. I tried

to glance away, failed.

Irritated beyond bearing by my importunate clowning, his

affronted ego had assumed me whole power of his brain, to

assert itself through his will—to dominate me.

The volition may have been unconsicous—he could not

know why he hated me—but me effect was damnable.

And for the first time since my brash intrusion into the

most private recesses of his mind, I began to doubt whether

the whole business was quite—decent.

Sure, I was trying to help the guy, but... but dreams are

sacred.

Doubt negates confidence. With confidence gone, the gate-

way is open to fear.

Another voice, sibilant. Steve Blakiston saying "... un-

less you let your mind go under.'' My own voice "... wake

up as a candidate for a bed in the next ward—'' No, not—

"... not unless you let your mind go under—" And Steve

had been scared to do it himself, hadn't he? I'd have some-

thing to say to that guy when I got out. If I got out. . . if—"

The whole thing just wasn't amusing anymore.

200 Peter Phillips

"Quit it, Craswell," I said harshly. "Quit making goo-goo

eyes, or I'll bat you one—and you'll feel it, coma or no

coma."

He said: "What foolish words are these, when we are both

so near to death?"

Steve's voice: ". . . sympathetic magic . . . imagination.

If he imagines that one of his fantastic creations kills the

hero—himself—he just won't wake up again."

That was it. A situation in which the hero must die- And he

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wanted to envisage my death, too. But he couldn't kill me.

Or could he? How could Blakiston know what powers might

be unleashed by the concept of death during this ultramun-

dane communion of minds?

Didn't psychiatrists say that the death urge, the will to die,

was buried deep, but potent, in the subconscious minds of

men? It was not buried deep here. It was glaring, exultant,

starkly displayed in the eyes of Marsham Craswell.

He had escaped from reality into a dream, but it was not

far enough. Death was the only full escape—

Perhaps Craswell sensed the confusion of thought and spec-

ulation that laid my mind wide open to the suggestions of his

rioting, perfervid, death-intent imagination. He waved an arm

with the grandiloquent gesture of a Shakespearean chorus

introducing a last act, and brought on his monster.

In detail and vividness it excelled everything that he had

dreamed up previously. It was his swan song as a creator of

fantastic forms, and he had wrought well.

I saw, briefly, that we were in the center of an enormous.

steep-banked amphitheater. There were no spectators. No

crowd scenes for Craswell. He preferred that strange, time-

less emptiness which comes from using a minimum number

of characters.

Just the two of us, under the blazing rays of great, red suns

swinging in a molten sky. I couldn't count them.

I became visually aware only of the Beast.

An ant in the bottom of a washbowl with a dog snuffling at

it might feel the same way. If the Beast had been anything

like a dog. if it had been anything like anything.

it was a mass the size of several elephants. An obscene

hulking gob of animated, semitransparent purple flesh, with a

DREAMS ARE SACRED 201

gaping, circular mouth or vent, ringed .inside with pointed

beslimed tusks, and outside with—eyes.

As a static thing, it would have been a filthy envenomed

horror, a thing of surpassing dread in its mere aspect; but the

most fearsome thing was its nightmarish mode of progression.

Limbless, it jerked its prodigious bulk forward in a series

of heaves—and lubricated its path with a glaucous, viscid

fluid which slopped from its mouth with every jerk.

It was heading for us at an incredible pace. Thirty

yards—Twenty—

The rigidity of utter fear gripped my limbs. This was true

nightmare. I tried desperately to think . . . flame-thrower

. . . how ... I couldn't remember ... my mind was slip-

ping away from me in face of the onward surging of that

protoplasmic juggernaut ... the slime first, then the mouth,

closing ... my thoughts were a screaming turmoil—

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Another voice, a deep, drawling, kindly voice, from an

unforgettable hour in childhood—"There's nothing in the

whole wide world or out of it that a slug from Billy here

won't stop. There's nothing you can meet in dreams that Billy

here won't stop. He'll come into your dreams with you from

now on. There's no call to he scared of anything." Then the

cool, hard butt in my hand, the recoil, the whining irresist-

ible chunk of hot, heavy metal—deep in my subconscious.

"Pop!" I gasped. "Thanks, Pop."

The Beast was looming over me. But Billy was in my

hand, pointing into the mouth. I fired.

The Beast jerked back on its slimy trail, began to dwindle,

fold in on itself. I fired again and again.

I became aware once more of Crasweli beside me. He

looked at me dying Beast, still huge, but rapidly diminishing,

then at the dull metal of the old Colt in my hand, the wisp of

blue smoke from its uptilted barrel.

And then he began to laugh.

Great, gusty laughter, but with a touch of hysteria.

And as he laughed, he began to fade from view. The red

suns sped away into the sky, became pin points; and the sky

was white and clean and blank—like a ceiling.

In fact—what beautiful words are "in fact"—in fact, in

sweet reality, it was a ceiling.

202 Peter Phillips

Then Steve Blakiston was peering down, easing the chro-

mium bowl off the rubber pads round my head-

"Thanks, Pete," he said. "Half an hour to the minute.

You worked on him quicker than an insulin shock.

I sat up, adjusting myself mentally. He pinched my arm.

"Sure—you're awake. I'd like you to tell me just what you

did—but not now. I'll ring you at your office."

1 saw an assistant taking the bowl off Craswell's head.

Craswelt blinked, turned his head, saw me. Half a dozen

expressions, none of them pleasant, chased over his face.

He heaved upright, pushed aside the assistant.

"You lousy bum," he shouted. "I'll murder you!"

1 just got clear before Steve and one of the others grabbed

his arms.

"Let me get at him—I'll tear him open!"

"1 warned you," Steve panted. "Get out, quick."

I was on my way. Marsham Craswelt in a nightshirt may

not have been quite so impressive physically as the bronzed

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gladiator of his dreams, but he was still passably muscular.

That was last night. Steve rang this morning.

"Cured," he said triumphantly. "Sane as you are. Said he

realized he'd been overworking, and he's going to take things

easier—give himself a rest from fantasy and write something

else. He doesn't remember a thing about his dream-coma—

but he had a curious feeling that he'd still like to do some-

thing unpleasant to a certain guy who was in me next bed to

him when he woke up. He doesn't know why, and t haven't

told him. But better keep clear."

"The feeling is mutual," I said. "I don't like his line in

monsters. What's he going to write now—love stories?"

Steve laughed. "No. He's got a sudden craze for West-

erns. Started talking this morning about the sociological and

historical significance of the Colt revolver. He jotted down

the tide of his first yam—*Six-Gun Rule.' Hey—is that based

on something you pulled on him in his dream?"

1 told him.

So Marsham Craswetl's as sane as me, huh? I wouldn't take

bets.

DREAMS ARE SACRED 203

Three hours ago, I was on my way to the latest heavy-

weight match at Madison Square Garden when I was button-

holed by an off-duty policeman.

Michael O'Faolin, the biggest, toughest, nicest cop 1 know.

"Pete. m'boy," he said. "I had the strangest dream last

night. I was helpin' yez out of a bit of a hole, and when it

was all over, you said, in gratitude it may have been, that yez

might have a couple of spare tickets fthe fight this very

night, and I was wondering whether it could have been a sort

oftellypathy like. and—"

I grabbed the corner of the bar doorway to steady myself.

Mike was still jabbering on when 1 fumbled for my own

tickets and said: "I'm not feeling too welt, Mike. You go.

I'll pick my stuff up from the other sheets. Don't think about

it. Mike. just put it down to the luck of me Irish."

I went back to the bar and thought hard into a large

whiskey, which is the next best thing to a crystal ball for

providing a focus of concentration.

"Teliypathy, huh?"

No, said the whiskey. Coincidence. Forget it.

Yet there's something in telepathy. Subconscious telepathy—

two dreaming minds in rapport. But I wasn't dreaming. 1 was

just tagging along in someone else's dream. Minds are partic-

ularly receptive in steep. Premonitions and what-have-you.

But I wasn't sleeping either. Six and four makes minus ten,

strike three—you're out- You're nuts, said the whiskey.

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I decided to find myself, a better-quality crystal ball. A

Scotch in a crystal glass at Cevali's club.

So I hailed a Purple Cab. There was something reminiscent

about the back of the driver's head. I refused to think about

it. Until the pay-off.

"Dollar-fifty," he growled, then leaned out. "Say—ain't I

seen you some place?"

"I'm around." I said, in a voice that squeezed with reluc-

tance past my larynx. "Didn't you drive me out to Pentagon

yesterday?"

"Yeah, that's it." he said. Square unshaven jaw, low

forehead, dirty red hair straggling under his cap. "Yeah—but

there's something else about your pan. I took a steep between

cruises last night and had a daffy dream. You seemed to

204 Peter Phillips

come into it. And I got the screwiest idea you already owe

me a dollar-fifty."

For a moment, I toyed with me idea of telling him to go to

hell. But the roadway wasn't green sand. It looked too solid

to open up. So 1 said, "Here's five," and staggered into

Cevali's.

1 looked into a whiskey glass until my brain began to clear,

then I phoned Steve Blakiston and talked. "It's the implica-

tions," 1 said finally. "I'm driving myself bats trying to

figure out what would have happened if I'd conjured up a few

score of my acquaintances. Would they all have dreamed the

same dream if they'd been asleep?"

"Too diffuse," said Steve, apparently through a mouthful

of sandwich. "That would be like trying to broadcast on

dozens of wavelengths simultaneously with the same trans-

mitter. Your brain was an integral part of that machine,

occupying the same position in the circuit as a complexus of

recording instruments, keyed in place with Craswell's brain—

until the pickup frequency was raised. What happened then I

imagined purely as an induction process. It was—as far as the

Craswell hookup was concerned, but—'*

! couldn't stand the juicy champing noises any longer, and

said: "Swallow it before you choke." The guy lives on

sandwiches.

His voice cleared. "Don't you see what we've got? During

the amplification of the cerebral currents, there was a backsurge

through the tubes and the machine became a transmitter.

These two guys were sleeping, their unconscious minds wide

open and acting as receivers; you'd seen them during me day,

envisaged mem vividly—and got tuned in, disturbing their

minds and giving them dreams. Ever heard of sympathetic

dreams? Ever dreamed of someone you haven't seen for

years, and me next day he looks you up? Now we can do it

deliberately—mechanically assisted dream telepathy, the waves

reinforced and transmitted electronically! Come on over. We've

got to experiment some more."

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"Sometimes," I said, "I sleep. That's what 1 intend to do

now—without mechanical assistance. So long."

A nightcap was indicated. 1 wandered back to the club bar.

I should have gone home.

DREAMS ARE SACRED 205

She hipped her way to the microphone in front of the band,

five-foot-ten of dream wrapped up in a white, glove-tight

gown. An oval-faced, green-eyed brunette with a tiny, de-

lightful mole on her left cheek. The gown was a little exigu-

ous about the upper regions, perhaps, but not as whistle-worthy

as the outfit Craswell had dreamed on her.

Backstage, I got a double shot of ice from those green

eyes. Yes, she knew Mr. Craswell slightly. No, she wasn't

asleep around midnight last night. And would I be so good as

to inform her what business it was of mine? College type,

ultra- How they do drift into the entertainment business. Not

that I mind.

When I asked about the refrigeration, she said: "It's merely

that I have no particular desire to know you, Mr. Pamell."

"Why?"

"I'm hardly accountable to you for my preferences." She

frowned as if trying to recall something, added: "In any

case—1 don't know. ! just don't like you- Now if you'll

pardon me. 1 have another number to sing—"

"But, please ... let me explain—"

' "Explain what?"

She had me there. I stumbte-tongued, and got a back view

of the gown.

How can you apologize to a girl when she doesn't even

know that you owe her an apology? She hadn't been asleep,

so she couldn't have dreamed about the skirt incident. And if

she had—she was Craswell's dream, not mine. But through

some aberration a trickle of thought waves from Blakiston's

machine had planted an unreasonable antipathy to me in her

subconscious mind. And it would need a psychiatrist to dig it

out. Or—

I phoned Steve from the club office. He was still chewing.

I said: "I've got some intensive thinking to do—into that

machine of yours. I'll be right over."

She was leaving the microphone as I passed the band on

my way out. I looked at her hard as she came up, getting

every detail fixed-

"What time do you go to bed?" I asked.

1 saw the slap coming and ducked.

I said: "I can wait. I'll be seeing you. Happy dreams."

THE SAME TO YOU DOUBLED

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by Robert Shecldey

In New York, it never fails, the doorbell rings just when

you've plopped down onto the couch for a well-deserved

snooze. Now, a person of character would say, "To hell with

that, a man's home is his castle and they can slide any

telegrams under the door." But if you're like Edelstein, not

particularly strong on character, then you think to yourself

that maybe it's the blonde from 12C who has come up to

borrow a jar of chili powder. Or it could even be some crazy

film producer who wants to make a movie based on the tetters

you've been sending your mother in Santa Monica. (And why

not; don't they make movies out of worse material than that?)

Yet this time, Edelstein had really decided not to answer

the bell. Lying on the couch, his eyes still closed, he called

out, "t don't want any."

"Yes you do," a voice from the other side of the door replied,

"I've got all the encyclopedias, brushes and waterless

cookery I need," Edelstein called back wearily. "Whatever

you've got. I've got it already."

"Look." the voice said, "I'm not selling anything. I want

to give you something."

Edelstein smiled the thin, sour smile of the New Yorker

who knows that if someone made him a gift of a package of

genuine, unmarked $20 bills, he'd still somehow end up

having to pay for it.

"If it'syree," Edelstein answered, "men I definitely can't

afford it."

"But I mean really free," the voice said. "1 mean free that

it won't cost you anything now or ever."

206

THE SAME TO YOU DOUBLED 207

"I'm not interested," Edelstein replied, admiring his firm-

ness of character.

The voice did not answer.

Edelstein called out, "Hey, if you're still there, please go

away."

"My dear Mr. Edelstein," the voice said, "cynicism is

merely a form of nai'vete. Mr. Edelstein, wisdom is discrimi-

nation."

"He gives me lectures now," Edeistein said to the wall.

"All right," the voice said, "forget the whole thing, keep

your cynicism and your racial prejudice; do 1 need this kind

of trouble?"

"Just a minute," Edelstein answered. "What makes you

think I'm prejudiced?"

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"Let's not crap around," the voice said. "If I was raising

funds for Hadassah or selling Israel bonds, it would have

been different. But, obviously, 1 am what I am, so excuse

me for living."

"Not so fast," Edelstein said. "As far as I'm concerned,

you're just a voice from the other side of the door. For all I

know, you could be Catholic or Seventh-Day Adventist or

even Jewish."

"You knew." the voice responded.

"Mister, I swear to you—"

"Look," the voice said, "it doesn't matter, I come up

against a lot of this kind of thing. Goodbye, Mr. Edelstein."

"Just a minute," Edelstein replied.

He cursed himself for a fool. How often had he fallen for

some huckster's line, ending up, for example, paying $9.98

for an illustrated two-volume Sexual History of Mankind,

which his friend Manowitz had pointed out he could have

bought in any Marboro bookstore for $2.98?

But the voice was right. Edeistein had somehow known

that he was dealing with a goy.

And the voice would go away thinking. The Jews. they

think they're better than anyone else. Further, he would tell

this to his bigoted friends at the next meeting of the Elks or

the Knights of Columbus, and there it would be, another

black eye for the Jews.

"I do have a weak character," Edelstein thought sadly.

208 Robert Sheckley

He called out, "All right! You can come in! But I warn

you from the start, I am nol going to buy anything."

He pulled himself to his feet and started toward the door.

Then he stopped, for the voice had replied, "Thank you very

much," and then a man had walked through the closed,

double-locked wooden door.

The man was of medium height, nicely dressed in a gray

pinstripe modified Edwardian suit. His cordovan boots were

highly polished. He was black, carried a briefcase, and he

had stepped through Edelstein's door as if it had been made

ofiell-0.

"Just a minute, stop, hold on one minute," Edelstein said.

He found that he was clasping both of his hands together and

his heart was beating unpleasantly fast.

The man stood perfectly still and at his ease, one yard

within the apartment. Edelstein started to breathe again. He

said, "Sorry, I just had a brief attack, a kind of hallucina-

tion—"

"Want to see me do it again?" the man asked.

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"My God, no! So you did walk through the door! Oh,

God, I think I'm in trouble."

Edelstem went back to the couch and sat down heavily.

The man sat down in a nearby chair.

"What is this alt about?" Edelstein whispered.

"I do the door thing to save time," the man said. "It

usually closes the credulity gap. My name is Charles Sitweil.

I am a field man for the Devil."

Edelstein believed him. He tried to think of a prayer, but

all he could remember was the one he used to say over bread

in the summer camp he had attended when he was a boy. It

probably wouldn't help- He also knew the Lord's Prayer, but

that wasn't even his religion. Perhaps the salute to the flag. . . .

"Don't get alt worked up," Sitweil said. "I'm not here

after your soul or any old-fashioned crap like that."

"How can 1 believe you?" Edelslein asked.

"Figure it out for yourself," Silwelt told him. "Consider

only the war aspect. Nothing but rebellions and revolutions

for the past fifty years or so. For us, that means an unprece-

dented supply of condemned Americans, Viet Cong, Nigerians,

Biafrans, Indonesians, South Africans, Russians, Indians, Pak-

THE SAME TO YOU DOUBLED 209

istanis and Arabs. Israelis, too, I'm sorry to tell you. Also.

we're pulling in more Chinese than usual, and Just recently,

we've begun to get plenty of action on the South American

market. Speaking frankly, Mr. Edelstein, we're overloaded

with souls. If another war starts this year, we'll have to

declare an amnesty on venial sins."

Edelstein thought it over. "Then you're really not here to

take me to hell?"

"Hell, no!" Sitweil said. "I told you, our waiting list is

longer than for Peter Cooper Village; we hardly have any

room left in limbo."

"Well. . . . Then why are you here?"

Sitwell crossed his legs and leaned forward earnestly. "Mr.

Edelstein, you have to understand that hell is very much like

U.S. Steel or I.T.&T. We're a big outfit and we're more or

less a monopoly. But, like any really big corporation, we are

imbued with the ideal of public service and we like to be well

thought of."

"Makes sense," Edelslein said.

"But, unlike Ford, we can't very well establish a founda-

tion and start giving out scholarships and work grants. People

wouldn't understand. For the same reason, we can't start

building model cities or Fighting pollution. We can't even

throw up a dam in Afghanistan without someone questioning

our motives."

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"I see where it could be a problem," Edelstein admitted.

"Yet we like to do something. So, from time to time, but

especially now, with business so good, we like to distribute a

small bonus to a random selection of potential customers."

"Customer? Me?"

"No one is calling you a sinner," Sitweil pointed out. "1

said potential—which means everybody."

"Oh. . . . What kind of bonus?"

"Three wishes," Sitweil said briskly. "That's the tradi-

tional form."

"Let me see if I've got this straight," Edelstein said. "1

can have any three wishes I want? With no penalty, no secret

ifs and buts?''

"There is one but," Sitweil said.

"I knew it," Edelstein said.

210 Robert Shecktey

"it's simple enough. Whatever you wish for, your worst

enemy gets double."

Edelstein thought about that. "So if 1 asked for a million

dollars—"

"Your worst enemy would get two million dollars."

"And if I asked for pneumonia?"

"Your worst enemy would gel double pneumonia."

Edelstein pursed his tips and shook his head. "Look, not

that I mean to tell you people how to run your business, but I

hope you realize that you endanger customer goodwill with a

clause like that."

"It's a risk, Mr. Edelstein, but absolutely necessary on a

couple of counts," Silwell said. "You see, the clause is a

psychic feedback device that acts to maintain homeosiasis."

"Sorry, I'm not following you," Edelstein answered.

"Let me put it this way. The clause acts to reduce the

power of the three wishes and, thus. to keep things reason-

ably normal. A wish is an extremely strong instrument, you

know."

"I can imagine," Edelstein said. "Is there a second reason?"

"You should have guessed it already," Sitwell said, baring

exceptionally white teeth in an approximation of a smile.

"Clauses tike that are our trademark. That's how you know

it's a genuine hellish product."

"I see, I see," Edelstein said. "Well. I'm going to need

some time to think about this."

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"The offer is good for thirty days." Sitwelt said, standing

up. "When you want to make a wish. simply state it—clearly

and loudly. I'll tend to the rest."

Sitwell walked to the door. Edelstein said, "There's only

one problem I think I should mention."

"What's that?" Sitwell asked,

"Well, it just so happens that I don't have a worst enemy.

In fact. 1 don't have an enemy in the world."

Sitwell laughed hard. then wiped his eyes with a mauve

handkerchief. "Edelstein," he said, "you're really too much!

Not an enemy in the world! What about your cousin Sey-

mour, who you wouldn't lend five hundred dollars to, to start

a dry-cleaning business? Is he a friend all of a sudden?"

"I hadn't thought about Seymour." Edelstein answered.

THE SAME TO YOU DOUBLED 211

"And what about Mrs. Abramowitz, who spits at the

mention of your name, because you wouldn't marry her

Manorie? What about Tom Cassiday in apartment 1C of this

building, who has a complete collection ofGoebbels' speeches

and dreams every night of killing all of the Jews in the world,

beginning with you? . . . Hey, are you all right?"

Edelstein, sitting on the couch, had gone white and his

hands were clasped tightly together again.

"I never realized," he said.

"No one realizes,'* Sitwell said. "Look, take it easy, six

or seven enemies is nothing; I can assure you that you're well

below average, hatewise."

"Who else?" Edelstein asked, breathing heavily.

"I'm not going to tell you," Sitwell said. "It would be

needless aggravation."

"But I have to know who is my worst enemy! Is il

Cassiday? Do you think I should buy a gun?"

Sitwell shook his head. "Cassiday is a harmless, half-

witted lunatic. He'll never lift a finger, you have my word on

(hat. Your worst enemy is a man name Edward Samuel

Manowitz."

"You're sure of that?" Edelstein asked incredulously.

"Completely sure."

"But Manowitz happens to be my best friend."

"Also your worst enemy," Sitwell replied. "Sometimes it

works like that. Goodbye, Mr. Edelstein, and good luck with

your three wishes."

"Wait!" Edelstein cried. He wanted to ask a million ques-

tions; but he was embarrassed and he asked only, "How can

it be that hell is so crowded?"

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"Because only heaven is infinite," Sitwell told him.

"You know about heaven, loo?"

"Of course. It's the parent corporation. But now 1 realty

must be getting along. I have an appointment in Poughkeep-

sie. Good luck, Mr. Edelstein."

Sitwell waved and turned and walked out through the

locked solid door.

Edelstein. sat perfectly still for five minutes. He thought

about Eddie Manowitz. His worst enemy! That was laugh-

able; hell had really gotten its wires crossed on that piece of

212 Robert Sheckley

information. He had known Manowitz for twenty years, saw

him nearly every day. played chess and gin rummy with him.

They went for walks together, saw movies together, at least

one night a week they ate dinner together.

It was true. of course, that Manowitz could sometimes open

up a big mouth and overstep the boundaries of good taste.

Sometimes Manowitz could be downright rude.

To be perfectly honest, Manowitz had, on more than one

occasion, been insulting.

"But we're friends," Edelstein said to himself. "We are

friends, aren't we?"

There was an easy way to test it, he realized. He could

wish for $1,000,000. That would give Manowitz $2,000,000.

But so what? Would he, a wealthy man, care that his best

friend was wealthier?

Yes! He would care! He damned well would care! It would

eat his life away if a wise guy like Manowitz got rich on

Edelstein's wish.

"My God!" Edelstein thought. "An hour ago, I was a poor

but contented man. Now I have three wishes and an enemy."

He found that he was twisting his hands together again. He

shook his head. This was going to need some thought.

In the next week, Edelstein managed to get a leave of absence

from his job and sat day and night with a pen and pad in his

hand. At first, he couldn't get his mind off castles. Castles

seemed to go with wishes- But, on second thought, it was not

a simple matter. Taking an average dream castle with a

ten-foot-thick stone wall, grounds and the rest, one had to

consider the matter of upkeep. There was heating to worry

about, the cost of serveral servants, because anything less

would iook ridiculous.

So it came at last to a matter of money.

I could keep up a pretty decent castle on $2000 a week,

Edelstein thought, jotting Figures down rapidly on his pad.

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But that would mean that Manowitz would be maintaining

two castles on $4000 a week'

By the second week. Edelstein had gotten past castles and

was speculating feverishly on the endless possibilties and

THE SAME TO YOU DOUBLED 213

combinations of travel. Would it be too much to ask for a

cruise around the world? Perhaps it would; he wasn't even

sure he was up to it- Surely he could accept a summer in

Europe? Even a two-week vacation at the Fonlainebleau in

Miami Beach to rest his nerves.

But Manowitz would get two vacations! If Edelstein stayed

at the Fontainebleau. Manowitz would have a penthouse suite

at the Key Largo Colony Club. Twice.

It was almost better to stay poor and to keep Manowitz

deprived.

Almost, but not quite.

During the final week, Edelstein was getting angry and des-

perate, even cynical- He said to himself, I'm an idiot, how do

I know that there's anything to this? So Sitwell could walk

through doors; does that make him a magician? Maybe I've

been worried about nothing.

He surprised himself by standing up abruptly and saying,

in a loud, firm voice, "I want twenty thousand dollars and I

want it right now."

He felt a gentle tug at his right buttock. He pulled out his

wallet. Inside it, he found a certified check made out to him

for $20.000.

He went down to his bank and cashed the check, trembling,

certain that the police would grab him. The manager looked

at the check and initiated it. The teller asked him what

denominations he wanted it in. Edelstein told the teller to

credit it to his account.

As he left the bank, Manowitz came rushing in, an expres-

sion of fear, joy and bewilderment on his face.

Edelstein hurried home before Manowitz could speak to

him. He had a pain in his stomach for the rest of the day.

Idiot* He had asked for only a lousy $20,000. But Manowitz

had gotten $40,000!

A man could die from the aggravation.

Edelstein spent his days alternating between apathy and

rage. That pain in the stomach had come back, which meant

that he was probably giving himself an ulcer.

It was all so damned unfair! Did he have to push himself

into an early grave, worrying about Manowitz?

214 Robert Sheckley

Yes!

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For now he realized that Manowitz was really his enemy

and that the thought of enriching his enemy was literally

killing him.

He thought about that and then said to himself, Edelstcin,

listen to me; you can't go on like this, you must get some

satisfaction!

But how?

He paced up and down his apartment. The pain was defi-

nitely an ulcer; what else could it be?

Then it came to him. Edelstein stopped pacing. His eyes

rolled wildly and, seizing paper and pencil, he made some

lightning calculations. When he finished, he was flushed,

excited—happy for the first time since SitwelFs visit.

He stood up. He shouted, "1 want six hundred pounds of

chopped chicken liver and 1 want it at once!"

The caterers began to arrive within five minutes.

Edelstein ate several giant portions of chopped chicken liver,

stored two pounds of it in his refrigerator and sold most of the

rest to a caterer at half price, making over $700 on the deal.'The

janitor had to take away 75 pounds mat had been overlooked.

Edelstein had a good laugh at the thought of Manowitz standing

in his apartment up to his neck in chopped chicken liver.

His enjoyment was short-lived. He learned that Manowitz

had kept ten pounds for himself (the man always had had a

gross appetite), presented five pounds to a drab little widow

he was trying to make an impression on and sold me rest back

to the caterer for one third off, earning over $2000.

I am the world's prize imbecile, Edelstein thought. For a

minute's stupid satisfaction, I gave up a wish worth conserva-

tively $100,000,000. And what do I get out of it? Two

pounds of chopped chicken liver, a few hundred dollars and

the lifelong friendship of my janitor!

He knew he was kilting himself from sheer brute aggravation-

- He was down to one wish now.

And now it was crucial that he spend that final wish

wisely. But he had to ask for something that he wanted

desperately—something that Manowitz would not like at all.

Four weeks had gone by. One day, Edelstein realized

glumly that his time was just about up. He had racked his

THE SAME TO YOU DOUBLED 215

brain, only to confirm his worst suspicions: Manowitz liked

everything that he liked. Manowitz liked castles, women,

wealth, cars, vacations, wine, music, food. Whatever you

named, Manowitz the copycat liked it.

Then he remembered: Manowitz, by some strange quirk of

the taste buds, could not abide lox.

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But Edelstein didn't like lox, either, not even Nova Scotia-

Edelstein prayed: Dear God, who is in charge of hell and

heaven. I have had three wishes and used two miserably.

Listen, God, 1 don't mean to be ungrateful, but 1 ask you. if a

man happens to be granted three wishes, shouldn't he be able

to do better for himself than I have done? Shouldn't he be

able to have something good happen to him without filling

the pockets of Manowitz. his worst enemy, who does nothing

but collect double with no effort or pain?

The final hour arrived. Edelstein grew calm, in me manner

of a man who had accepted his fate. He realized that his

hatred of Manowitz was futile, unworthy of him. With a new

and sweet serenity, he said to himself. 1 am now going to ask

for what I. Edelstein, personally want. If Manowitz has to go

along for me ride. it simply can't be helped.

Edelstein stood up very straight. He said, "This is my last

wish. I've been a bachelor too long. What I want is a woman

whom I can marry. She should be about five feet. four inches

tall, weigh about 115 pounds, shapely, of course, and with

naturally blond hair. She should be intelligent, practical, in

love with me. Jewish, of course, but sensual and fun-loving—"

The Edelstein mind suddenly moved into high gear!

"And especially," he added, "she should be—I don't

know quite how to put this—she should be the most, the

maximum, that I want and can handle, speaking now in a

purely sexual sense. You understand what I mean, Sitwell?

Delicacy forbids that I should spell it out more specifically

than that. but if the matter must be explained to you . . ."

There was a light, somehow sexual tapping at the door.

Edelstein went to answer it, chuckling to himself- Over twenty

thousand dollars, two pounds of chopped chicken liver and

now mis' Manowitz. he thought, I have you now: Double the

most a man wants is something 1 probably shouldn't have

wished on my worst enemy, but I did.

GIFTS...

by Gordon R. Dickson

The paper boy, cutting across soft spring grass of the front

lawn in the bright sunshine of a late May afternoon, was so

full of bubbling expectations that he did not see Jim and

almost threw the newspaper into Jim's face.

"Oh, here, Mr. Brewer," he said, checking and handing it

up the height of the three concrete steps. He squinted against

die sun up at the chunky, adult body in blue wash slacks and

T-shirt and the square-boned face under short red hair. "We're

having a P.T.A. carnival at school, tonight. You coming?"

"! guess not tonight. Tommy," said Jim.

"They're going to have a shooting gallery," said Tommy,

and hurried on to the neighbors.

Jim, turning, went back through the screen door into die

living room-

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"Something?" called Nancy, from the kitchen. He went

on into her, still carrying the paper. She was standing by the

sink, peeling potatoes for the casserole of a Friday dinner, the

transparent, tight-tied apron making her look slimmer and

blonder and younger—like a new bride just beginning to play

housewife.

"What?" Jim asked.

"I heard you talking." She looked aside and up at him.

"Just the paper boy," he said. "Wanted to know if we're

going to a P.T.A. party at the school, tonight."

She laughed cheerfully.

"Tell him to wail until Joey's old enough for school. Then

we'll go to all the P.T.A. parties."

"If we can afford it." Jim batted the paper idly against die

216

GIFTS 217

refrigerator. "It's a fund-raising deal, of course. You have to

spend—nickels and dimes, but it adds up."

She watched him-

"Worrying, hon?" she asked. He shook his head; then

grinned at her.

"Just thinking. A week of filling prescriptions and selling

home permanent wave kits doesn't add up to much. A two-

year-old house tike dlis—a three-year-old car—and what's

left over? A lot of running Just to stand stilt."

"You'll have your own drugstore someday."

"Someday is right."

She finished oft" die potato in her hands widiout taking her

eyes off him.

"You're hungry,"she said. "Go sit down. Dinner'!! be

ready soon."

"All right." He went back into the living room, opening

die paper as he went. He was just sitting down in the green

armchair across from die television when the doorbell chimed.

"I'll get it," he called to the kitchen. Nancy did not

answer. Just as he had called, Jim had heard the back door

slam, and the noise of their son, Joey, and Pancho, the family

cocker, was filling the kitchen air.

Jim approached the front door and saw through the screen

die dark faces of two slim, middle-aged men, tall in business

suits. The Community Fund, thought Jim, remembering sud-

denly that dlis was the week of their drive for a new hospital.

"May we come in?" asked die taller of the two.

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"Sure, come on in," Jim opened the screen for mem and

led me way to the living room. He was turning over in his

head the possible amounts he would have to subscribe- "Sit

down." The two men sat side by side on die sofa. "What can

I do for you?"

"My name is Long." said the taller one. "And dlis is

White."

"Pleased to meet you." Jim half-rose from his own chair

to shake hands with both of mem. They looked enough alike,

he thought, to be brothers.

"Mr. Brewer," said Long, "you have a dog in the house."

"Why, yes," answered Jim. He looked at them, suddenly

frowning, and then a slight scraping noise, as of claws on a

218 Gordon R. Dickson

polished floor, caught his ear and he turned his head to see

Pancho standing in the entrance to the kitchen, head and tail

up, staring at the strangers. The cocker spaniel was perfectly

still and rigid, leaning forward, nose extended, almost in

point. Then, slowly, with the delicate care with which he

approached birds in cover, the dog began to advance. Step by

slow step he came up before the two men, who had not

moved, but sat watching with patient eyes. Before them he

halted. Then, equally slowly, he began to back away from

them, step by step, until he came up hard against Jim's legs,

pressing sideways against them with hip and flank, his head

still turned to the two on the couch. Through the thin material

of his slacks, Jim felt Pancho's whole body trembling.

"Easy, boy," said Jim, automatically, putting his hand on

the furry head. "Easy." He stared at the two; and then

suddenly a coldness ran down the narrow line of his spine and

he felt the fine hairs on his own neck begin to rise as his body

tensed in the chair. He was watching the two faces, so much

alike, and he saw mem now as motionless and impersonal as

masks.

"Yes," said the one called Long. "You see that we aren't

human."

Jim said nothing- But he could hear the sound of Nancy

Mid Joey's voices in the kitchen and he was slowly, as slowly

as Pancho had moved, shifting the weight of his body for-

ward in the chair, so that it would be over the bone and

muscle springs of his knees.

"Please," said the one introduced as White. "There's

nothing for you to be afraid of. We won't harm you. And you

can't harm us. We only want to talk to you."

Jim was poised now. He was thinking that he could leap

forward and yeli at the same time. But there was the danger

that Nancy and Joey would only be bewildered by his shout

and come instead into me living room to see what was the

matter.

"What about?" said Jim.

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"You've been chosen," said Long, "at random. Not en-

tirely at random, but mainly so, to answer a question for us.

That's all there is to it." He looked into Jim's eyes; and Jim

had the impression that he smiled suddenly and warmly,

GIFTS . , . 219

although Long's lips did not move. or any part of his face.

"It's a question that concerns your interests, only. not ours.

Only you ought to get over being afraid of us. Here—"

He extended his hand toward Pancho. He did not snap his

fingers or beckon in any way, but merely held out his fingers,

waiting. And after a slow. still movement, the dog began to

move, step by step away from the comfort of Jim's legs and

toward the stranger. He approached the hand as he might

approach a new dog in the neighborhood, stiffly and with

caution. For a long second, with neck outstretched, he sniffed

at the fingers—and then, with a change as dramatically sud-

den as the snapping of a violin string, his tail wagged and he

shoved his head forward onto the hand of Long.

Long brought forward his other hand and scratched Pancho

between the ears. He looked up at Jim.

"You see?" he said.

"That's a dog," said Jim; but he had relaxed, nonethe-

less. Not completely, but relaxed. "Well, what is it?"

"Did you ever think much about ethics, Mr. Brewer?"

said Long, still petting Pancho.

"Ethics?" Jim looked from one to the other of them.

"Perhaps you might call it morality," said White. "The

duty of morality. The duty to your neighbor."

"We get a lot of that here," said Jim, thinking of the

P.T.A. and the Community Fund and all the many other

drives and collections.

"You have a lot," said White. "But did you ever mink

much about it?"

"You don't think about things like that," said Jim, still

watching them. "You just do them."

"But," said White, '^there are two sides to that coin. The

coin called charity."

"What do you mean?" said Jim. He looked from White to

Long. who was still holding Pancho's head in one slim palm,

and stroking between Pancho's ears now. with the other. The

dog's eyes were closed in an ecstasy of pleasure.

"We're talking," said Long, suddenly, "about the ethics

of Charity. If your dog here were tost far from your home,

and trying to find his way back—if he were obviously hun-

220 Gordon R. Dickson

gry, you'd think someone else was a good person, if he or

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she fed him?"

"Certainly," said Jim.

"And what if the dog were interested only in getting back

to you? Would it still be a kindness to tie him up untiLhe did

eat? And perhaps force him to stay, in an effort to feed him

up again?"

"That's what we'd call a mistaken kindness," said Jim.

"Look, what's the point of all this?"

"The point is the ethics of Charity," said Long, "and that

we feel the same way about them you do. Charity isn't a

kindness when the one receiving it doesn't really want it. It's

an instinct among civilized people to give help—but the

instinct can be mistaken."

"I still don't get what you're driving at," said Jim.

Long let go of Pancho, who shoved a furry head forward

onto his knee. He reached into his right-hand suitcoat pocket

and took out something small enough to be hidden in his

hand.

"Mr. Brewer," he said, "when you were very young.'did

you ever dream of having something—something magical

that could grant all your wishes?"

Jim frowned at him.

"Doesn't everybody?"

"Everybody does," said Long. He turned his hand over

and opened it out. Lying in his palm was what looked like a

child's marble, a glassy small globe of swirled color, green,

and rust, and white. He half-stood and passed it into Jim's

automatically receiving hand. "There you are."

"There I am, what?" demanded Jim, staring at it.

"There you have your wish-granler," said Long.

Jim looked back up into the dark face of the slim man and

smiled a little.

"No," said Long. "It's quite true. Close your hand on it

and wish."

Jim looked back at the marble. The others waited. Long

had gone back to petting Pancho.

"No, I don't think so," said Jim, handing the marble

back. Long accepted it, put it back in his pocket. They both

stood up, and went toward the door.

GIFTS 221

"Wait," said Jim, getting up himself. "You're going?"

"We took it you had answered us," said White.

"No, wait—" said Jim. "Come on back. Let me see that

again."

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The two of mem returned to the couch and sat down. Long

passed over the marble. Jim took it, sitting back down him-

self, and turned it over curiously in his fingers."

"Anything?" he said.

Once more Jim had the impression of a smile from the

unmoving countenance of Long.

"Almost anything," he said. "The almost doesn't have to

concern you."

Slowly, Jim closed his hand over the marble- He squeezed

his eyes shut and thought. He opened them again.

He was standing in the drugstore where he worked. A

middle-aged woman customer was just walking out past him,

filling his nostrils with an invisible cloud of her cologne.

Behind the drugs and toiletries counter Dave Hogart, the

owner, was looking up at him, his face wrinkled in surprise.

"Jim. ! didn't see you come in. What're you doing back

down here?" he said.

"Uh . . . aspirin," said Jim. "Fifty of the kid aspirin,

Dave. Joey's got a slight cold."

Dave turned and reached to an upper shelf, turned back and

handed Jim the bottle. He rang it up on the charge key of the

cash register, the fingers of his left hand resting swollen and

hunched on the bare counter beside the register.

"How's the arthritis?" Jim found himself asking, suddenly.

Dave jerked his head up with a grin.

"Not bad enough to make me want to retire yet," he said.

"Want to buy the store?"

"Wish I could," said Jim.

"I guess we're going to be ready to make that deal about

the same time," said Dave. "Hope Joey's all right in the

morning—" Another customer was coming into die store.

"See you, Jim." He moved off.

Both their backs were turned. Jim closed his hand on the

marble and wished again.

He was back in his own living room. He sat down again in

his chair and noticed the small transparent bottle of orange-

222 Gordon R. Dickson

colored tabiets was still in his hand. He set it carefully down

on the coffee table by his chairside and looked up. Long and

White were still sitting, watching him.

"1 don't understand," said Jim. "I just don't understand."

Long pointed to the hand of Jim's that still held the marble.

"That," he said. "isn't important. We only wanted some-

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thing to show you, something to convince you with. The

whole story's much bigger."

Jim glanced suddenly toward the kitchen entrance and the

voices of Joey and Nancy coming through il.

"Don't worry," said White. "They won't think to come in

until we're through here."

"You see," said Long. "We don't come from anywhere

near the family of worlds that go around your sun- But we

couldn't help discovering you people, when you started doing

things. We've been watching you for some years now. You

people are like we were—a long time back on our own world.

•You have the same troubles, the same sorrows, much the

same hopes. You remind us very much of us; in the

beginning."

"You're that much like us?" said Jim, dazedly.

"Well, not so much as you might think just by looking at

us—and again, much more so than you would realize in ways

you've yet to team about," said Long. "The point is. we

look at you—with your conflicts, your diseases, your pains

and famines—all your lacks. And many of them are things

we can do something about. We could heal your sick, we can

give you longer and more useful lives. We can help you to go

out among the stars and find more living room. We could

open up great new fields of opportunity for you."

"Well," said Jim, looking from one to the other, "why

tell me about this? Why don't you?"

"Because we're not sure it would be right," said White.

"We're not sure you want our help."

"For those things?" said Jim. "Are you crazy? Of course

we do."

"Are you sure?" said Long.

They sat watching him; and Jim stared back at them. The

moment stretched out long between them.

"Of course I'm sure," said Jim at last-

GIFTS 223

"I hope so,'* said White. "Because the decision is up to

you."

Jim jerked his gaze suddenly over to look at White.

"Us?" he said.

"No," answered White, knitting his long ringers together

in his lap. "Just you, you alone."

"Me?" cried Jim, and then checked his voice to hold it

down below a level that would carry into the kitchen. He

stared at them. "Just me? Why? Why, me?"

"We picked you at random and on purpose," said White.

"We think you are most likely to give us the truest answer."

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"But you don't want me!" said Jim, turning to Long.

"I'm nobody to make a decision for the whole worid! Look,

there's the President. Or me United Nations—'*

"You see," said Long, patiently, "me question isn't a

logical one- It isn't an intellectual one, to be investigated by

charts and speeches and discussions. It's an emotional ques-

tion, dealing with deep and basic instincts. It isn't what help

we can give you, it's—do you want help? Any help? Help of

any kind?"

He stopped speaking and waited. Jim did not say anything.

"Are you still so sure?" asked White, gently.

Jim sagged slowly back in his chair. He turned his head

slowly and looked at the aspirin bottle. Beyond it, me win-

dow was just beginning to tint with the first translucency of

twilight. Slowly, he shook his head.

"I don't know," he said, in a low voice- "I don't know.**

"You can think it over," said White. "Take tonight and

think about it. We can come back for your answer, tomorrow,"

"I'm not the man," said Jim, weakly. "I'm not the man to

ask—something like that.''

"You are me man," said Long, as they got up. "because

we picked you to be the man."

Jim rose also. The faces of all three of mem were very

close together. He felt their alienness now, more strongly

than at any earlier moment since they had come in.

"Let me help you with a little advice," said Long. "For-

get that you're deciding for a world. Don't try to think of

how all the rest will feel. Decide only for yourself. I promise

you, what you sincerely feel, the great and lasting part of

224 Gordon S. Dickson

your people, those who work and marry and have children

and endure, will fee! the same."

They turned away from him and went through the screen

door into the strong glare of the sunset. Jim heard the screen

door slam quietly behind them.

"Dinner's ready!" called Nancy, from the kitchen.

Incredibly, he actuaHy forgot about it during the general

chatter and excitement of dinner. It was only later, after Joey

had been put to bed and he and Nancy were sitting in the

living room watching television, that it all came back to him.

He waited until the western they happened to be watching

came to its noisy climax and then got up from his chair.

"I've got some letters to write," he told Nancy.

He went into the extra bedroom, that they called the office,

and shut the door- He sat down in the chair before the card

table that did service as a desk and turned on the lamp. Its

light shone warmly at the bookcases and secondhand over-

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stuffed chair that had been their first furniture purchase for

the apartment he and Nancy had moved into after their honey-

moon. He got out his fountain pen, the notepaper and

envelopes—and then took the marble once more from his

pocket and laid it on the white sheet of paper before him. It

glowed back up at him, reflecting the lamplight-

"I've got to think this thing out," be told himself.

But no thoughts came. Once he closed his hand around the

marble hesitantly, but then let go of it again without using it.

He tried to imagine what the world would be like if he should

tell Long and White that his answer was yes. No hospitals,

different kinds of cars, he supposed—he was not very good at

this kind of imagining. If everybody had everything they

needed, what about money—and jobs.

He checked suddenly. Funny it had not occurred to him

before. Of course, his own job would be one of the first to

go. Well people wouldn't need medicine. And as for all the

rest of the stuff a drugstore sold, beauty aids and the rest,

there would probably be new versions that would last for a

lifetime. Magazines would probably be left, candy, iee cream,

toys - . . What would happen to Nancy and Joey if he had no

job? What would eventually happen to him?

GIFTS 225

But he was forgetting. Under the new set-up they wouldn't

want for things they needed. No need to worry there. But

what would he do? He couldn't just sit around for me rest of

his life. Or could he? There were things he'd always wanted

to do, like deep-sea fishing and places he'd always wanted to

go. But would that be enough?

On second thought, there would probably be thousands of

new jobs opening up. Long and White obviously belonged to

a people who had work to do. Perhaps there would be some-

thing he would like better than pharmacy, something that

would give him a feeling of really getting somewhere, mak-

ing progress . . .

After some while, he glanced at his watch, h was almost

eleven; he had been sitting here close to two hours. And

nothing was decided. He stood up, feeling the weight and

weariness of his own body. His eyes smarted from staring at

tfie light reflected from the blank white paper before him. He

put everything away, turned out the tamp and went to his and

Nancy's bedroom.

Nancy was already in bed and reading the newspaper. She

looked up as he came in.

"What time do you go in the morning?" she asked.

"Not until noon," he said. "Dave's opening up tomor-

row." He took off his shirt and went about the business of

getting ready for sleep. Nancy put me paper away on the

shelf underneath the night table beside their double bed. She

yawned and slid down under the covers.

"I've got to take Joey shopping tomorrow," she said.

"He's just bursting out of his socks."

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"Yes," he said. He turned out the light and got into bed.

The peaceful darkness washed in around him. He. lay there,

slowly breathing. There was a movement under the covers

and he felt Nancy's hand touch gently upon his arm.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly.

He sighed, deeply and gustily; and, turning toward her, he

told her, the whole story about White and Long, and all that

they had said and done.

Nancy always had been a good listener. She listened now,

without interrupting him with questions, her face a pale blur

226 Gordon R. Dickson

in the little light filtering in around the edges of the window

shades. Toward the end of it they were both sitting up in bed;

and Jim got up to turn on the light and retrieve the marble

from his pants' pocket. He brought it back to her and got into

bed again.

She took it from his hand and turned it over in her own

fingers. The light from their bedstand lamp caught and glinted

from its surface, making the three colors seem to flow as she

turned it, as if they were being stirred about within a transpar-

ent shell. She looked at Jim.

"Could I?" she said. "Do you suppose—"

"Go ahead," said Jim.

She closed her fingers about the marble and closed her

eyes. A fur stole appeared on the blanket before them. Nancy

opened her eyes again.

"Oh!" she said, on a little intake of breath. She reached

and touched the fur with a feather touch, stroking it almost

imperceptibly with the ends of her fingers. She got up sud-

denly, climbing over Jim, who was on me outside of the bed,

carrying the stole, and went to the mirror of her dressing

table- She put the stole around her neck and held it there with

both hands, gazing into the mirror- Watching her, standing

there in her nightgown with the fur around her. Jim felt a

sudden ridiculous tightening in his throat.

"Nancy," he said.

She turned about and came back to the bed, climbing in

again and reaching for the marble. As her hand closed about

it, the fur vanished.

"Nancy'" said Jim. "You didn't have to do that. You can

keep it."

"If you decide, 1*11 get it back," she said. Without warn-

ing she kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, darling."

"1 didn't do anything," said Jim.

"Thank you for saying I could keep it."

He squeezed her hand in his; but he still frowned at the

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marble lying before them on the blanket.

"What'li I do? What'll 1 do?" he murmured.

He feit the light touch of her hand on his shoulder.

"Why don't you sleep on it," she said. "You'll think

better in the morning."

GIFTS ... 227

"All right," he sighed. "I'll try. Only I don*t think I

can."

But he did sleep. He had not known how tired he was and

unconsciousness had flooded in on him almost in the moment

in which he closed his eyes. Only with sleep came the

dreams, a multitude of them—vast confused fantasies of enor-

mous ships that sailed above cities under hothouse domes.

And houses unroofed to the ever-present air, beneath the

domes. And people at work with shining machines whose

purpose he could not comprehend.

Then, later on. the dreams changed back to the ordinary

world; and there came the only c'w that he was ever to

remember clearly afterward. In it he stood on the customer's

side of a counter in the drugstore where he worked; and

facing him on the counter's other side was Joey, in a while

pharmacist's jacket. Joey, grown to a man now. A young

man, but with the hair already receding on his forehead and

tired lines of premature age on his face; and the drugstore

about him was dingier and shabbier than Jim remembered.

Joey handed him a bottle filled with small, pink children's

aspirin.

"Take this to my boy." Joey was saying. "It's not much,

but it's the best we have."

Jim took it from him; and as Jim did so, he noticed that

Joey's fingers had swollen, arthritic joints as Dave's hand

had. Joey saw his eyes fail on them, and look the hand away,

hiding it under the counter.

"I'm sorry. Joey!" cried Jim, suddenly.

"It's not your fault." said Joey. But he had turned his

head away; and would not look at his father.

Jim woke, sweating.

He lay flat on his back on his side of the bed. Beside him.

Nancy slept sweetly, breathing silently, with her face pressed

against her pillow. Pale tines of beginning dawnlight were

marking the windows around the edges of the pulled window

shades.

Jim breathed deeply; and slowly, quietly, got up out of the

bed. He dressed while Nancy continued to sleep, looking

over at the alarm clock on the night table. Its white hands

228 Gordon R. Dickson

stood at the black numerals that told him it was five-thirty, an

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hour and a half before the alarm was due to go off. Dressed at

last in slacks and shirt, he went out through the silent living

room to the front door, opened it, and went down the steps

onto the front walk.

He stopped, breathing in the fresh morning air and looking

at the sky. It was as cloudless as clear water and the new rays

of the morning sun made it scintillate as if it was possessed of

a light of its own. The lawns up and down the block on either

side of him and across the street glittered greener than ever

with the night's dew. The other houses all seemed sleeping;

but as he watched Chuck Elison came out of his kitchen door

five doors down on the street's other side and climbed into

his panel truck with "Elison Plumbing" painted on its side.

Chuck's wife, Jean, came out the kitchen door to stand in her

apron and wave at him as he backed down his driveway,

turned the truck up the street, and drove off. She went back

into their house.

Jim turned, slowly from his gazing at the street, to look at

his own house. The yellow trim around the screens and

windows was beginning to flake a little. He should repaint

before the heat of the summer months really got under way.

And the grass would need cutting, soon—by Sunday, anyway.

Under the picture window of the living room the early

tulips were in bloom, the yellow tips of their scarlet petals

forming neat, scaltop-edged cups. He reached out a forefin-

ger, bemused, to touch one. He could not remember, just

now, seeing any flowers in his dreams of the domes and

ships. Undoubtedly they had been mere, but—never had he

felt before how beautiful these small plants were. ...

A slight sound of shoes on the sidewalk behind him made

him straighten and turn- Long stood there alone, the morning

sun lighting up his strange, dark face. For a moment they

merely looked at each other saying nothing. Then Long spoke.

"Do you want more time?" he asked.

Jim sighed. Once more he looked around the street on both

sides of him.

"No," he said. Slowly he put his hand into the right-hand

pocket of his slacks. The marble was there. He took it out

and handed it over to Long.

GIFTS 229

Long took it and put it back in his own pocket.

"You're sure?" he asked, looking closely at Jim.

"1 think," said Jim, and sighed again, "we ought to get it

for ourselves."

Long nodded, thoughtfully. He was turning to go when Jim

stopped him.

"Was that the right answer?" Jim asked.

Long hesitated. For a second there seemed to be something

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strange and sad, but at the same time warm and friendly

behind his eyes; but it was gone too quickly for Jim to pin it

down.

"That's not for me to say." he said. And then, astonish-

ingly, he did smile—for the first and only time; and the smile

lit up his face like sunset after a storm has blown away. "But

ask your grandson."

And, suddenly, as shadow, he was gone.

I WISH 1 MAY. 1 WISH 1 MIGHT

by Bill Pronzmi

He sat on a driftwood throne near the great gray rocks by the

sea, watching the angry foaming waves hurl themselves again

and again upon the cold and empty whiteness of the beach.

He listened to the discordant cry of the endlessly circling

gulls overhead and to the sonorous lament of the chill Octo-

ber wind. He drew meaningless patterns in the silvery sand

before him with the toe of one rope sandal and then erased

them carefully with me sole and began anew.

He was a pale, blond young man of fourteen, his hair

close-cropped, his eyes the color of faded cornflower. He was

dressed in light corduroy trousers and a gray cloth jacket, and

his thin white feet inside the sandals were bare. His name was

David Lannin.

He looked up at the leaden sky, shading his eyes against its

filtered glare. His fingers were blue-numb from the cold. He

turned his head slowly, bringing within his vision the eroded

face of a steep cliff, with its clumps of tule grass like patches

of beard stubble, rising from the beach behind him. He

released a long, sighing breath and turned his head yet again

to look out at the combers breaking and retreating.

He stood and began to walk slowly along the beach, his

hands buried deep in the pockets on his clom jacket. The

wind swirled loose sand against his body, and there was the

icy wetness of the salt spray on his skin.

He rounded a gradual curve in the beach. Ahead of him he

could see the sun-bleached, bark-bare upper portion of a huge

timber half-buried in the sand, some twenty yards from the

water's edge. Something green and shiny, something which

230

I WISH 1 MAY, I WISH 1 MIGHT 231

had gone unnoticed as he passed earlier, lay in the wet sand

near it.

A bottle.

He recognized it as such immediately. It was resting on its

side with the neck partially buried in the sand, recently

earned in, it seemed, on the tide. It was oddly shaped, the

glass an opaque green color—the color of the sea—very

smooth, without markings or labelings of any kind. It ap-

peared to be quite old and extremely fragile.

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David knelt beside it and lifted it in his hands and brushed

the clinging particles of sand from its slender neck. Scarlet

sealing wax had been liberally applied to the cork guarding

the mouth. The wax bore an indecipherable emblem, an

ancient seal. David's thin fingers dexterously chipped away

most of the cerarion, exposing the dun-colored cork beneath.

He managed to loosen the cork—and the bottle began to

vibrate almost imperceptibly. There was a sudden loud pop-

ping sound, like a magnum of champagne opening, and a

microsecond later an intense, blinding flash of crimson

phosphorescence.

David cried out, toppling backward on the sand, the bottle

erupting from his hands. He blinked rapidly, and there came

from very close to him high, loud peals of resounding laugh-

ter that commingled with the wind and the surf to fill the cold

autumn air with rolling echoes of sound. But he could see

nothing. The bottle lay on the sand a few feet away, and there

was the limber and the beach and the sea; but there was

nothing else, no one to be seen.

And yet, the hollow, reverberating laughter continued.

David scrambled to his feet, looking frantically about him.

Fright kindled inside him. He wanted to run, he tensed his

body to run—

All at once, the laughter ceased.

A keening voice assailed his ears, a voice out of nowhere,

like the laughter, a voice without gender, without inflection,

a neuter voice: "I wish I may, I wish I might."

"What?" David said, his eyes wide, vainly searching.

"Where arc you?"

"I am here," the voice said. "I am here on the wind."

"Where? I can't see you."

232 Bill Pronzini

"None can see me- I am the king of djinns, the ruler of

genies, the all-powerful—unjustly doomed to eternity in yon

flagon by the mortal sorcerer Amroj." Laughter. "A thou-

sand years alone have I spent, a millennium on the cold dark

empty floor of the ocean. Alone, imprisoned. But now I am

free, you have set me free. 1 knew you would do thus. for 1

know all things. You shall be rewarded. Three wishes shall I

grant you, according to custom, according to tradition. I wish

I may, I wish I might. Those be the words, the gateways to

your fondest dreams. Speak them anywhere, anytime, and 1

shall hear and obey. I shall make each of your wishes come

true."

David moistened his lips. "Any three wishes?"

"Any three," the voice answered. "No stipulations, no

limitations. I am the king of djinns, the ruler of genies, the

all-powerful. I wish I may, I wish I might. You know the

words, do you not?"

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"Yes! Yes, I know them."

The laughter- "Amroj, foul sorcerer, foul mortal, I am

avenged! Avaunt, avaunt!"

And suddenly, there was a vacuum of sound, a roaring of

silence, the presence of which hurt David's ears and made

him cry out in pain. But then the moment passed, and there

was nothing but the sounds of the tide and the wind and the

scavenger birds winging low, low over the sea.

He gained his feet and stood very still for perhaps a

minute. Then he began to run. He ran with wind-speed, away

from the timber half-buried in the sand. away from the smooth,

empty green bottle; his sandaled feet seemed to fly above the

sand, leaving only the barest of imprints there.

He fled along the beach until, in the distance, set back

from the ocean on a short bluff, he could see a small white

house with yellow warmtfi shining through its front window.

He left the sand there, running across ground now more solid.

running toward me white house on the bluff.

A wooden stairway appeared on the rock. winding sky-

ward. As he neared it, a woman came rushing down the

stairs. She ran toward him and threw her arms around him

and hugged him close to her breast. "Oh, David, where have

you been! I've been frantic with worry!"

I WISH I MAY, 1 WISH 1 MIGHT

233

"At the beach," he answered, drinking great mouthfuls of

the cold salt air into his aching lungs. "By the big rocks."

"You know you're not supposed to go there." the woman

said, hugging him. "David, you know that. Look at the way

you're dressed. Oh, you mustn't ever, ever do this again-

Promise you won't ever do it again."

"1 found a bottle by the big timber." David said. "There

was a genie inside- 1 couldn't see him, but he laughed and

laughed, and then he gave me three wishes. He said that all I

have to do is wish and he'll make my wish come true. Then

he laughed some more and said some things I didn't under-

stand, and then he was gone and my ears hurt."

"Oh, what a story! David, where did you get such a

•story?"

"I have three wishes," he said. "I can wish for anything

and it will come true. The genie said so."

"David. David, David'"

"I'm going to wish for a million-trillion ice cream cones,

and I'm going to wish for the ocean to always be as warm as

my bathwater so 1 can go wading whenever 1 want, and I'm

going to wish for all the little boys and girls in the world to

be just tike me so I'll never-ever be without somebody to play

with."

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Gently, protectively, the mother took the hand of her re-

tarded son. "Come along now. dear. Come along."

"1 wish I may. I wish 1 might." David said.

THREE DAY MAGIC

by Charlotte Armstrong

Do you believe in magic? Old-fashioned magic? That which

can twang the threads of cause and effect, take a swipe right

across the warp and woof of them, and alter the pattern?

If you ask George this question, he will get a look on his

face, a certain look, as if he were remembering a time, an

hour, maybe only a certain feeling that once he had. He'll

answer, yes, he believes in magic. But he won't explain.

You'll concede he has the right to mean whatever he means

by that. You'll like George-

The Casino at the Ocean House, up in Deeport, Maine, was a

long room with windows to the sea. Its tables and soft lights,

the dance music, gave the hotel's guests something to do in

the evening. It was a huge success. Even the village oldsters

were proud of it. "Beth'z down to the Casino, last night,"

they'd say. "George'z got a new trumpet. Fellow from Bath.

Ayah. Pretty good, she says."

George Hale and his band played in the Casino every

summer, but George, himself, belonged to Deepen, as had

his Pa and Grandpa and many other Hales before him. Tour-

ists exclaimed over the old Hale house, up on the slope, when

they saw it glimmering behind the lilacs, under the elms. But

George always thought it was most beautiful in the winter

when the flounces and ruffles of green fell away and it stood

forth, bared and exquisite, etched by delicate shadow, white

on white.

Here, also, lived his mother and two of her sisters, all three

of them widows, all three doting on George, but each pre-

234

THREE DAY MAGIC 235

tending, with a native instinct towards severity, that this was

not so. Nor did Nellie Hale, Aunt Margaret or Aunt Liz ever

admit that the way he earned a living was "work" at all.

George had too much fun. George knew he had fun and he

knew the Casino was a success. But he did not suspect what a

huge sucess he was.

He was perfect for the Casino. For George felt he was in

me middle of a party, any night; therefore, when he took up

his saxophone as if he hod to join, something better than the

seabreeze blew across the floor. George's music may have

been a little bit corny. He liked all kinds. George did, but

whatever he, himself, touched, came out with a jig quality, a

right foot. left foot, whirl-me-around-again ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay

effect. But he was right for the Casino. He kept the customers

remembering that here they were, up on the coast of Maine.

breathing deeper than they breathed in town, and in touch for

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two weeks, more or less, with some simple source of joy.

The Casino paid George well, in fact, enough to last him a

frugal winter. But it never occurred to George to push on-

ward. Winters, he went right on enjoying himself. Then the

band, and at local fees. would play for the Elks, or the High

School prom. In fact, for some miles around, wherever peo-

ple gathered together for fun and society, George was usually

right there, beating out the festive rhythm of their mood.

Deeport was proud of him, for in the winter, like the streets

and the shore, he was theirs alone.

George was nearly 29, and unmarried. The neighbors spec-

ulated about this, sometimes. But his mother and the Aunts,

if they speculated, said nothing. Aunt Liz damed his socks

exquisitely. Aunt Margaret ironed his shirts to perfection.

And his mother, without seeming to do so, based the menus

on his preferences.

Naturally George had his secrets. For one thing, he played

some pretty highbrow records when he was alone. For an-

other, he believed in true love. He wasn't so naive as to think

it happened to everybody, but he did hope it was going to

happen to him. There were certain volumes of English po-

etry, never caught off the shelves in the old Hale house,

which grew, nevertheless, dog-eared and loose at the bind-

ings. Oh, George had his secrets.

236 Charlotte Armstrong

One evening in August, George was leading the boys

through a waltz, when a red-haired giri in a white dress

floated out of the dimness in somebody's arm. Something

about the line of her back, the tilt of her head as she took the

turns (George played a fast bright waltz, nothing dreamy)

pleased him very much for no reason he could trap by taking

thought. When later, she danced by with John Phelps 3rd, an

oid-timer among the summer people, George gave the baton

to his second fiddle, climbed down, and sought Phelps out.

She was sitting at a table with an elderly bald-headed man,

who had a long sour face and cold gray eyes over which

homy lids fell insolently. She was Miss Douglas. He was Mr.

Bennett Blair. George didn't know who Bennett Blair was

and didn't care. He invited Miss Douglas to dance.

The music happened to be another waltz. George held her

off, the prettiest way to waltz, and somehow, on the crowded

floor there was plenty of room. They flew along, dipping like

birds. Her long white skin fanned and flared. Her bright hair

swung. Her brown eyes smiled at George and he smiled

gently down.

She had no "tine." Neither did George, of course. They

exchanged a little information. They told each other where

they lived. She lived in New York with Mr. Blair who was

no kin but her guardian. She liked Maine very much. George

said he'd been to New York twice and he liked it very much.

It was a wonderful city. She said it was wonderful up here,

she thought. And they waltzed.

When it was over, there was a small warm spot, some-

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where under George's dress shin, a little interior glow, per-

haps in the heart.

The next morning George was hanging around the drugstore

when she came in. It wasn't much of a coincidence, because

all the summer people went to the drugstore at least twice

every day. She came in alone. She wore a blue dress that was

solid in the middle. He'd known she wouldn't come down to

the drugstore with her ribs bare. He felt very close to her,

having known mis in advance as he had.

Her name was Kathleen. After she accepted his invitation

to a Coke so graciously, it seemed all right to ask her.

THREE DAY MAGIC 237

She said she was called Kathy. He said there wasn't any

nickname for George, except Georgie, but he'd outgrown that

of course, by the time he was six. Then he was telling her

about his mother and the Aunts. Pretty soon, George and

Kathy were walking up High Street towards the old Hale

house, and inside, against their coming. Aunt Liz was wiping

the pink hobnail pickle dish. Aunt Margaret was straightening

the antimacassars in the sitting room, and Nellie Hale was

adding just a little more milk to the chowder.

Kathy stopped at the gate and said me exact right thing.

She said, "It must be just beautiful in the wintertime!"

George's hand on the gate shook a little as he opened it.

There was a meaning to the time. It would be remembered,

this moment in which Kathy Douglas stepped through his

front gate-

Nellie Hate and the Aunts, for aH one could tell, were

absolutely hardened to George's well-known habit of bringing

strange and beautiful red-haired girls home for dinner. They

thought nothing of it at all- But in a little while they began to

unbend from this stiff proud nonchalance. For Kathy talked

about old things and she understood them, too. Old things

that had belonged here a long long time. She asked about

Captain Enos Gray, whose cherry table they sat around. And

about Captain Mark, who'd brought the china home. She

listened, bemused, while me ships went out again and some

went down ... the tales were spun ... the worn rosary of

family legend was told out, bead by bead..

It was after three o'clock before George took her back to

the Ocean House. They laughed a lot, skipping along the

afternoon streets, her hand in his arm.

They were a little giddy, both of them.

Phelps 3rd was on the veranda, looking concerned. Mr.

Blair, in a formidable beach outfit, was waiting in the lobby.

He shooed Kathy upstairs. He looked at George from under

his horny lids and grunted and walked away.

George came, blinking, out on the veranda again, and

now, too late, Pheips 3rd told him.

Kathy Douglas had as her inheritance about $5,000,000 of

her own. Bennett Blair had about $10,000,000 of his own

and was a power in the land. Also, upright and cold, he was a

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238 Charlotte Armstrong

guardian who realty guarded. Nobody would get K-athy ex-

cept the creme de la creme in blood, character, business

ability and financial standing.

She was a flower, a lovely lovely flower, but not a wild

flower, nor one that had grown under amateur culture in a

suburban garden. No, delicately and expensively nurtured,

precious and unobtainable was Kathy. She was not, admitted

Pheips 3rd, for such as he, who was heir to only half a

million from Phetps 1st, toothpaste.

She was not ... oh, heavens, never' ... for such as

George!

For a dashed moment or two, it seemed to George that he

must give her up. But then his vision cleared- By definition it

was no solution to give her up. So he dismissed the notion

from his mind.

The aroma of millions clung to Mr. Blair and around

Kathy. too. It wafted along the harsh Maine sand to the

beach, where Kathy and her Fraulein spent most of the day.

Naturally, George took to the beach. Afternoons, he would

greet Mr. Blair, back from his morning golf to stretch his

knobby white knees to the sun. But George couldn't for the

life of him dig up any mutual interests. Mr. Btair looked

wearily down from an eminence of age and experience and

nothing George had to offer seemed worth his response. Yet

George knew he was not ignored- He felt, in the afternoons,

the weight of that cold glance. He felt himself being labeled

and filed in some compartment of that shrewd old brain. Mr.

Blair was a guardian who really guarded. Phetps 3rd had

known what he was talking about, alt right.

But, somehow, seeing Kathy every day, the problem post-

poned itself and hung suspended in a golden time. For Kathy

wasn't discouraging at all.

A golden week went by and then, one morning, Kathy

came running to tell him. "George, we're leaving- We have

to go!" Clouds fell over the day. "Mr. Blair had planned

another week, but something has come up."

"Gosh," said George from the bottom of his heart, "I'm

sorry to hear that." And yet, somewhere inside his head a

little lick of triumph told him that nothing had come up at all.

THREE DAY MAGIC 239

George folded himself up and sat down where he was and

Kathy knell beside him. "When. Kathy?" he asked bleakly.

"This afternoon." She was frankly full of woe.

George bit his lip thoughtfully. "Back to New York?"

"Yes."

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George looked at the ocean and something closed in his

mind. Something said goodbye to it. "Me, too." he said.

"Right after Labor Day, when the Casino closes, I'm coming

down."

"Oh, George! You'll come to see me!" She was all vivid

and glad. Her hand moved on the sand towards his.

"I can't say anything, Kathy. 1 can't ask you anything,

yet."

"Ask me what?" Her eyes were shining.

But George, in the bottom of his soul. agreed with Mr.

Blair. Nothing was too good for Kathy. Of course, she was

infinitely precious and she must have the best, the very best

of everything. So he put his lips on her hand, just once, and

let it go. "I'm going to be able to ask Mr. Blair," he said

grimly, "me very same day."

Yet, here on the beach in the sunshine, with Kathy near

and the dark blue sea and the whole world sparkling around

them, the future cleared before him. He'd go down to New

York and settle himself and make about a million dollars in

some sound respectable way and men he'd ask her. !t seemed

not only clear and simple, but certain that ail this must come

to pass.

For Kathy wasn't discouraging at all.

George's decision was the result of a marching logic. Now,

in the blood and character departments. George was fine. What

he lacked was in the success department. So he must abandon

this easygoing life. He must acquire the proof, that is to

say, the money- Nothing he could do in Deeport would lead

to the kind of money Mr. Blair probably had in mind. So ...

The boys in the band were disconsolate. The manager of

the hotel set up such a pained and frantic howl that George

fled his office, with bitter reproaches of ingratitude, picas for

mercy, predictions of the Casino's ruin, ringing in his ears.

George thought this was shock. He was sorry.

240 Charlotte Armstrong

He arranged to leave the bulk of his earnings in the bank

for his mother and the Aunts where it would, as it always

had, take them nicely through the winter. "So you see,"

George explained to them hopefully, "it's not going to make

any difference to you."

The three ladies tightened their mouths and agreed. Aunt

Margaret, although plump, was the one who tended to fear

the worst, but, of course, she didn't weep. Aunt Liz, tiny and

angular, chose to look on the bright side, and smiled mysteri-

ously to herself as if she'd been tipped off by a private angel.

Nellie Hale, a blend of both temperaments, simply tightened

her mouth. "George is grown," she said, and that was all she

would say.

So, darned and mended, cleaned and pressed, and fed to

me utter limit, George, with $200 in his pocket and his

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saxophone in his hand, took the train one September evening,

without the faintest conception of the gap his departure tore in

the whole fabric of the town's life. All hints of this he took

for kindliness and so he was spared. He suffered only the

wrench of his own homesickness.

New York received George and his saxophone with her cus-

tomary indifference. Yet he was lucky in me first hour, for he

walked by Mrs. McGurk's four-story brownstone on West

69th Street just as her hand in me front window hung up the

vacancy sign.

George, trained all his life to pretend that only cleanliness

mattered, saw that the square ugly room on the fourth floor

was clean and so said he'd take it. Mrs. McGurk sniffed.

Take it, indeed' She said she'd take him. Rent by the month,

in advance. That was her rule. George paid and looked about

him. The room had no charm, but George, although he had

always lived in the most charming surroundings, knew not

the word or its definition. The place felt queer. He imagined,

however, that it was only strange.

Mrs. McGurk was a widow. 40-odd, toughened by her

career. The poor woman had a nose that took, from head-on,

the outline of a thin pear, and was hung, besides, a trifle

crookedly on her face. Her character, though scrupulously

THREE DAY-MAGIC 241

honest, was veiled by no soft graces. Like the room. she was

clean but she had no charm.

What other roomers might hole up, two to a floor, below

him in this tall narrow house, George did not know. He tried

to say "Good day" to a man who seemed about to emerge

from the other door on his landing, but he got no answer. All

he saw was a brown beard, a narrow eye, and the door,

reversing itself, closing softly to wait till he had gone by.

George shrugged. He had other matters on his mind. First,

he had to get a job- This was not very difficult, since he was

a member of the union in good standing. Pretty soon George

bad. hired himself and saxophone out to Cannichael's Cats, a

small dance band, playing in a small nightclub. It wasn't such

a wonderful job, but George felt that in this great city first

one got a toehold and then one took the time to look around.

His first night off, he called on Kathy. She lived only just

across the Park in Bennett Blair's gray stone house that

looked to George exactly like a bank building. He was re-

ceived in a huge parlor, stuffed full of ponderous pieces, dark

carving, stifled with damask in malevolent reds and dusty

greens, lit by lamps whose heavy shades were muddy brown.

Kathy was glad to see him. Bennett Blair was not.

George walked home through the Park, and on its margins

the tall buildings glittered, high and incredible in the dark.

" Tisn't going to be so darned easy!" George thought to

himself. And he tightened his mouth.

George, from his toehold, had no time to look around

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because the toehold gave way. Cannichael's Cats were sorry

but they couldn't use him. He wasn't right.

George had to stir himself and get another job with Bamey

and his Bachelors. They played, as had the Cats, a jagged

and stylized kind of music, full of switches and turns. Bamey

nked to ambush himself, to leap on a sweet passage with an

odd blue interruption, to fall from a fast blare to a low

whimper with shock tactics. These tricks were no ingredient

of George's bag. it wasn't that he didn't like the effect. He

admired it. But he couldn't do it. Bamey could jerk and

shake up the whole band, but not George. George would try,

but first thing he knew, there he'd be, tootling along in his

242 Charlotte Armstrong

own jig time, following one note with the probable next at the

probable interval. Being obvious! Barney was disgusted'

So George left the Bachelors, unhappily, and approached

Harry and his Hornets.

Each new month, Mrs. McGurk waited for dawn to crack,

but no longer. Pay in advance was her rule and her system

had no flaws. Rarely, indeed, did the sun go down upon a

deficit, or a roomer escape to carry his debt unto the second

day.

On the fourth floor, George, occupationally a late riser.

was just getting up when she sang out, "First of the month,

Mr. Hale." Her initial assault was always blithe and confident.

"Why, sure," drawled George. "Come in a minute." He

fumbled under his handkerchiefs in me top drawer. "Hey,"

cried George in honest surprise. "I don't seem to have much

money!"

The landlady's nostrils quivered, scenting battle.

"Gosh," said George reasonably, "I can't give you all of

this!" in the midst of turmoil, changing jobs, George had not

noticed how low his capital funds were getting. He stared at

calamity. He had been here a month and a half, now, and he

had not only had made no progress toward his million dollars,

he dared not pay the November rent!

Mrs. McGurk was nagging monotonously. "Month in ad-

vance. Told you my rule. Took the room, didn't you?"

Up in Deepen, of course, money lay in the bank. But it

was not his.

"Rent's due," shrilled Mrs. McGurk. "You've got it!"

George pulled himself together. "How about taking half of

it?"

She looked at the bills he offered and on her lopsided face

there was no recognition. "Half of it now." urged George.

"I've just got a new job. All 1 want to do is see the man and

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get an advance." George was not going to let next week's

meals out of his fingers. He couldn't. This crisis had sneaked

up on him, but his instinct was to meet it with caution and

compromise. There was a sense, here, in which Greek met

Greek.

Mrs- McGurk snorted. "Why don't you pay me and then

go get this advance?"

THREE DAY MAGIC 243

"Because I'd rather do it the other way around," said

George.

"Nope," said Mrs. McGurk.

"Yup."

"Nope."

"Do you think I'm trying to cheat you?" George was

really curious.

"I got my rules, young man, and nobody's talked me out

of them for twenty years."

George sat down on the bed and ran his hand through his

hair. "1 wish a little bird would tell me where the money's

gone." he said ruefully.

"Either pay up or get out'" Mrs. McGurk wanted no

persiflage. "I'll take two weeks' notice money- You want it

like that? Eh?"

George said. "The first of the month lasts till midnight.

Take half. If I bring you the rest before midnight, it's my rent

on time. If I don't, then this is notice money," Her face, if

possible, hardened. "That's fair," said George.

"That's not the way i do business."

"But it's fair," he insisted.

"You got it, right there, and I want it!"

"You're not going to get it." said George quietly. He put

the bills on the bed.

Mrs. McGurk was wild. George swung around. "Of course,

there's another way that's just as fair. Give me back a half,

tonight, if things go wrong- Want me to trust you?" George

smiled. "O.K."

Head down, she glowered at him. Her hand snatched at the

money on the bed and stuffed it furiously into her old brown

handbag. Mrs. McGurk was fit to be tied- During the years of

shortages, what with rent ceilings and rising costs, she had

not grown rich and avarice was not her trouble. But she had

acquired a taste for power, and she was not going to be

jockeyed out of position. "You gimme the rest before mid-

night," she cried, "or I'll rent the room out from under you

tomorrow." She flung herself out the door and pounded

across the hall. "Mr. Josef! Mr. Josef!"

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George closed his door gently. He had to think, what to

do. As a matter of fact. Harry, the bandleader, hadn't been

244 Charlotte Armstrong

absolutely definite about taking George on. And no use look-

ing for Harry this early. George sal down on the bed and

removed all artificial props from under his spirits. Promptly

they sank, way down. This ugly room was more unfriendly,

uglier than ever.

But the mood was one George had been taught to cast off.

He thought he'd go across the Park and see K-athy for a

minute.

Kathy came in a little girl's hop down the great stairs,

seeming, as always, glad to see him. But she said, "Oh,

George, Mr. Blair is home. He wants to have a talk with you

and 1 promised ..." George felt a chill of foreboding.

"Maybe," she added hopefully, "he's too busy."

But Mr. Blair was not too busy. George was taken from

Kathy's side and ushered through the high rooms to the

library where Mr. Blair, entrenched behind his desk, frostily

received him.

Mr. Blair was old and cold and his past lay around him

here in this sanctum, relics of past enthusiasms, the accumu-

lations of his mind. The total effect was overwhelming. There

was so much, and everywhere each single item in the mass

reeked of its expense. The smell of money rose like dust.

George nearly choked.

Mr. Blair massaged the vague arthritic pains in his knuck-

les. "Mr. Hale," he said crisply, '*am I correct in guessing

that your reason for transplanting yourself to this city is your

interest in my ward?"

"Correct," croaked George.

A faint sigh came out of Mr. Blair. It seemed to set the

dust dancing. "I envy your youth," he said in his rusty

voice. George thought of the knobby old knees that had never

tanned, in all that Maine week, though he had held them so

faithfully to the sun, and felt, oddly in this place, a brief pang

of pity. "But," the tough old lids lowered, "I must ask you

to consider my point of view."

"I recognize your point of view, sir. I wouldn't think of

asking for Kathy . . . yet.''

Mr. Blair pushed out his lower lip. George had jumped the

interview several steps ahead. "You expect to be in a posi-

tion to ask for her, ever?''

THREE DAY MAGIC 245

"Yes. sir. I do."

Mr. Blair went into a fast rhythm. "What is your work?"

He barked.

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"1 . . . uh - . ."

"You play a saxophone." Mr. Blair knew the answers,

too- "How much do you earn?"

"Uh..."

"Not very much. What prospects for the future?"

"Well . . ."

"Few," said Blair. "As a matter of fact, you are just

floundering. And even if you had a job, at this moment, what

prestige, what standing in the community are you aiming

for?"

"But..."

"When cah you hope to ask for Kathleen?"

George wilted. "I don't know," he admitted.

Mr. Blair look another tack. "Now, if." he purred, "you

point out to me that Kathleen already has enough mere money,

I would agree with you. But I'll ask you this. Have you had

any business training? Have you the slightest idea bow to

watch over and guard her estate?"

"I intend to learn," said George desperately.

Mr. Blair let his lids fall in pure disdain. "Let me speak

plainly. If you were to defy my expressed opinion, I am

empowered to divert her estate into charitable channels ..."

"No, sir," said George promptly. "That won't happen."

Bennett Blair's lids lifted and he stared a moment. "I don't

accuse you of fortune hunting," he said stiffly. "I merely say

that since it will take you many years to achieve the standing

I consider necessary, will you ask her now to fix her affec-

tions on you? Can't you see that's unfair?"

George leaned back. "It certainly is," he answered stead-

ily. "1 shouldn't even risk her liking me, now. Somebody

better for her than 1 am might be shut out. That's what you

mean, sir, isn't it?" Mr. Blair's fish mouth remained a little

open. "It does me a tot of good to see her," said George

wistfully. "But I'll have to get along without that."

"Quite right." snapped Mr. Blair. "You realize what it

means?"

"Yes." said George sadly.

246 Charlotte Armstrong

"I cannot," said Mr. Blair crossly, "be so swayed by my

admiration for your handsome attitude that I will forget to

insist upon a strict accord between your principles and your

actions."

"Did you think I was just talking?" asked George for-

lornly- He got up. "Is there some back way out?"

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Mr. Blair caught his tongue between his teeth and around

this physical arrangement crept a reluctant grimace verging

on a smile. "Oh, no, no, no," he waved a hand. "You may

speak to Kathleen, of course. You might tell her," he added

ruthlessly, "how we agree."

Kathy was waiting in the parlor. George took her hands.

"Goodbye," he said.

She scrambled out of the chair in alarm.

"Mr. Blair's been explaining some things and he's right,

Kathy. I'd better not sec you any more. Until maybe . . .

someday."

Kathy's hair gleamed as if it brightened with her temper.

*'I won't be seeing you at all? Because Mr. Blair says you

mustn't?"

"But he's right, Kathy. Maybe you don't realize . . ."

"You haven't asked me what I realize."

"1 know you never think about money or success or things

tike that," groaned George. "But they have a meaning, just

the same. I ... I have a lot to do." He stepped away from

her. "In the meantime, don't wait."

"What!"

"Don't. . . don't wait . . ." said George, ready to bawl.

Kathy flung out her hands in a gesture that might have

been despair.

"There's only one thing to do," babbled George.

Kathy cocked her head. "Are you sure you know what it

is, George?"

George's eyes were storing up the sight of her.

"I haven't any intention of waiting for you!" said Kathy

boldly.

George was beyond heeding. "Then . . . Kathy, good-

bye," he groaned. She looked so lovely, so tempting, so

perfect, George felt he couldn't bear it another minute. He

blurted out, "I hope I'll be seeing you ... but if I never

THREE DAY MAGIC 247

do. it was wonderful to have seen you at all. Goodbye.

Goodbye."

He turned and fled.

Kathy began to breathe very quickly, in angry little gasps.

She ran after him. She cried out, to the door that had already

closed behind him, "Aren't you going to ask me what 1

mean?" The last word went up in an outraged wail. But

Kathy took her hand from me door and drew away.

It was a black morning. George walked along, staggering

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under a succession of blows. He was about as far down as he

could get. But, gradually, the bottom began to feel solid

under his feel.

He wouldn't be seeing Kathy. so he must use every mo-

ment to claw and fight his way back to her. Definitely, he

must kick away the toehold of his musical background. That

meant no Hornets. That meant no advance! That meant rais-

ing the rest of his rent some other way.

Well, he'd sell his saxophone. So much was settled. George's

spirits began to bounce. He would close his mind to what

Kathy had said. Whether she waited or not, nothing could

keep him from hoping, from trying.

By sheer luck, he caught the landlady off guard and ran up

the long stairs. On the last flight he overtook the bearded

figure of his fourth-floor-mate. "Pardon," said George. The

man flattened himself against the wall, palms in, head turned,

eyes furtive. He stood as if he felt himself to be invisible

against the protective coloration of the wallpaper.

George paid him no mind. He knew what he had to do.

When his hand went cozily around the handle of his instru-

ment case, he beat down the sentimental pang. He reconnoi-

tered- Mrs. McGurk's voice was raised, back in her kitchen

regions, so he fled past the last newel post and escaped.

He tramped along the street, west, his mind busy solidify-

ing plans. Sell the sax, pay the rent, read the ads, go to

employment agencies, poke and pry, wedge himself in some-

where. His imagination glanced off miracles of one kind or

another, bouncing, steadying.

There probably weren't going to be any miracles, George

reminded himself. He mustn't expect any magic.

He didn't believe in magic, at this time.

248 Charlotte Armstrong

Something told him to stop walking. He saw that he stood

before a pawnshop, looking into a very dirty window at a

jumble of stuff that gleamed in the dust, whether jewelry or

junk he couldn't tell. But deeper within he could discern the

dim shapes of larger objects, among them the unmistakable

curve of a violin. Musical instruments? Well, he could ask.

George opened the door and went in. A bell made a flat

clank over his head- Out of the shadowy back regions, the

proprietor approached, a very small man, humped and tele-

scoped with age, his face netted with a million wrinkles. He

had a dark eye, this little man, dark, liquid and gleaming.

"Yess?" he said-

George lifted his case. "How much for this?" he asked,

speaking distinctly in case these ancient ears were deaf.

The proprietor fluttered back of the counter. He moved

silently and somehow weightlessly. "Sixteen dollarsss," he

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said in a dry wisp of sound.

"Not enough," said George's Yankee blood promptly.

The old man moved his shoulders in light indifference. But

the dark eyes swam to look up, as if to suggest a hesitation.

So George stood still, although his urgency, the glow of his

resolution, the steam George had up, tumbled and churned

around him.

The old man said, "I've got things I give you to boot."

"What things?" said George. "Look, 1 don't want to

swap, you know. 1 want ..."

"Yesss ... but come. . . ." The whole little man was

nodding, now.

George followed him along a dark lane that led to the

darkest interior corner. The proprietor paused in a clearing in

the jungle of objects, picked up something and set it on a low

table. "If you wish," said the proprietor, "sixteen dollarsss

and thisss. . . ." "Thisss" was an old carpet bag.

"What's in it?"

"See . . ."

George pulled at the double handle. "Nuh-uh. What would

1 want with . . . ? Hey, what's thai?" He reached in. There

was an old sword wedged diagonally in the bag. George had

a fancy for old things and a small-boyish love for swords. He

THREE DAY MAGIC 249

fondled the hilt of this one. The scabbard was some worn

crimson stuff.

George waked himself out of a dream. The old man's

bright eyes were avid and sly. "No, no," said George.

"Maybe isss antique. ..."

"Looks antique, alt right," George fished into the bag and

found a small carved box. The lid opened by sliding. There

was nothing in it but a flower A rose. Artificial, he sup-

posed. He dropped the box and rummaged again. There were

soft cloth masses. There was a piece of flat metal, framed

with a wrought design, burnished in the center- Old, very

old. There was a small dark leather pouch. "What's this?"

"Open," said the proprietor softly.

George pulled the thong fastenings. Inside, he found a

single piece of metal. Flat, lopsided, with some worn engrav-

ing on it. perhaps it was gold. "Hey," said George, "did

you know this was in here?" The old man made his butterfly

shrug. "Is it a coin? Is it gold?"

"Maybe . . ."

"This might be worth something," George said honestly.

"Old coins, y'know."

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"May be ..." said the proprietor indifferently. "You

take?"

"Wait a minute." said George, "how do you know this

isn't gold? How do you know it isn't worth a lot of money?"

"1 am tired," said the old man.

George looked dubious. He chewed on his lip. The whole

thing was queer. Queer shivery feeling to this place. "1

certainly don't want this bagful of junk. Give me $25 and the

coin. How about that?"

"I give twenty and all thisss. So no more, not less." The

sibilants sighed on the dusty air.

"You seem to want to get rid of it," murmured George.

His imagination was jumping- Maybe the coin was worth a

lot. Maybe the sword would sell for something to a man who

knew about swords.

"I am going," said the proprietor softly, "to California."

Ah! George relaxed. He had a sense of satisfaction, and

clearing of contusion. Of course! Anyone who was going to

California flung off the winter garments of old caution. He

250 Charlotte Armstrong

wouldn't want to bother, this old fellow whose bones were

promised to the sun!

But George was young and full of beans, and George could

spare the energy that lurks at the bottom of most strokes of

luck. George said, "It's a deal."

The old man's hands came up as if he would rub them

together, but cautiously, he did not. He simply nodded, all

over, as before, and fluttered towards his till.

When George lugged his new property out into the street, he

felt perhaps he'd been had. One thing led him to hope he'd

done well. The queer stark look with which the old man's ?;

eyes clung to the carpel bag, there at the last ... as if there ^

were something . . . something unusual. . i about this carpet ;C

bag.

As a matter of fact. it was old-fashioned, ungainly, mis- ^i.

shapen, distended ridiculously at one bottom comer because ^

the sword inside was really too long, and it made George feel ^r

foolishly conspicuous. The only thing to do was dump it in ||

his room. l^:

Even as he gained the second floor, he heard a henlike

flutter in the lower hall. He went up fast, anyway, shut

himself in and began to empty the carpet bag out on his bed. 11

Might as well see what he had here. ^.

Across the hall, Mr. Josef held his ear against the inside

panel of his own door. His eyes rolled, relishing mis pose. His

fat hand. on which the nails were chewed away, caressed the ^

inner knob with delicious stealth. ~§~

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Down below, Mrs. McGurk muttered to herself and began ||

to climb. ' f.

Outside, the city roared. ;'

George looked at what he had here. There was the pouch.

He tossed it aside. The box that held a rose, the sword . . .

George balanced it a moment in his hand and it felt alive. He

had a terrible suspicion that he could never sell it. ^

There was that flat metal oval. Then there was a strange ||

object, in metal mat resembled a teapot and yet was not a ^

teapot. Baffled, George put it down. He fished out a queer ^

old flask. It seemed to be made of pinkish stone, with a stony

stopper, the whole bound in an intricate metal lattice. Some-

THREE DAY MAGIC 251

thing swished inside. George could not get the stopper out to

sniff at whatever was in there. He put it down and delved

deeper.

Now he came to the fabric- First, he drew out an odd

garment, made of a black, rather porous cloth that was opaque

and yet so soft it seemed to melt under his fingertips. The

tiling was designed to be worn. The top of it was cut.

obviously, to fit around one's shoulders. George blinked and

put it by.

He certainly did not understand what kind of person packed

this bag, nor of what kind of household these things could be

the relics. There must be some rhyme or reason to this

conglomeration. True, all these things were old. But what

other quality they had in common he couldn't ... at this

time . . . imagine.

Rolled tightly at the bottom of the bag there now remained

a small thin, old, and shabby Oriental rug. As George ex-

tracted it, something else dropped. The last object of all in die

bag was a ring.

Very old. Not gold, however. Perhaps it was blackened

silver. On a plain band, a wrought setting in the same dark

metal held an uncut lumpish stone of a bluish-gray color.

This stone was curiously filmed over. George put his thumb

on it. It wasn't dusty. Nothing rubbed off. It was certainly a

queer-looking ring. He held it in his palm, thinking suddenly

of Kathy.

Mrs. McGurk rapped sharply, opened the door, and stepped

in. She loosened the set of her mouth long enough to let out a

"Well?"

George dropped the ring and felt for the coin in his pocket.

"It's not midnight yet," he said mildly. It occurred to him

that he had better hunt up an old coin man as soon as possible.

"Lying, weren't you?" she sneered. "You got no new

Job, and no man to see!"

George didn't answer. He just met her steady glare with a

steadier look of patience and regret. Mrs. McGurk's eyes fell

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away- They spied the bed. "I'd thank you to keep that junk

off my bedspread," she snapped.

"Sorry," said George gently. "I've got to go out again

now."

252 Charlotte Armstrong

Mrs. McGurk said venomously- "Don't hurry. I've de-

cided not to accept your fuH month's rent. I'm giving you

notice, Mr. Hale."

"All right," said George patiently. "Excuse me." He

went out, past her, leaving her there.

He felt stiff and sad. There was no need for such unpleas-

antness. It served no purpose except to sadden and embitter

the innocent day.

Mr. Josef stood in the hall. When George appeared, he

turned his back and pretended to be entering his room. George

started downstairs- He looked back. Mr. Josef was in a

ridiculous position. He seemed to be staring into the blank

wood, a foot and half from his face. He was not, of course.

His eyes, sidewise, were watching George.

"Who," wondered George, "does he think he is, anyway?"

Mrs. McGurk, having been rude, ugly and unjust, was of

course funous. She stalked about George's room, looking for

something to pin her fury on. George, however, kept his

things clean and orderly as effortlessly as he breathed. There

was nothing for his landlady to pounce on, except the bed and

its array of strange objects.

Mrs. McGurk approached it then, with nostrils dilated.

But, dusty and old as many of these things appeared, nothing,

no dust of any kind, had been transferred to the bedspread.

Mrs. McGurk's fury began to give way to sheer curiosity.

The cloak she made nothing of. It couldn't belong usefully

to a personable young man like George. The metal things she

shook her head over. Junk- She wouldn't, she huffed to

herself, give them houseroom.

What quiet there was, existing under the constant flow of

sound from the city, was being broken hideously by a cat,

down below. He was a displaced feline who lived by his wits

in the deep yards in the heart of the block. He was sitting on

a fence, wailing his heart out. Mrs. McGurk winced at the

piercing pain of his cries.

She picked up me pinkish stone flask and shook it, but she

couldn't get the stopper out, either She opened the pouch

and drew her mouth down at the sight of the flattened lump of

gold that lay within in. She could not know that George, even

THREE DAY MAGIC 253

now, was taking a similar coin out of his pocket to show it to

a man behind a counter, two blocks south. Nor could she

know that George had not the slightest idea of the existence

of this second coin. No thief, she merely drew the thongs

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tight and cast the pouch down, impatiently.

The cat wailed as if the world's end were at hand. Mrs.

McGurk moved to the window and joined the neighbors in a

lively exchange of shouted despair. The cat had no mind for

me troubles of humans. It wailed on.

Shaking her head, Mrs. McGurk drew it into the room

again. She picked up the ring. A curious piece of work. She

slipped it on her finger, where it fit with a pleasant weight to

it and looked, for all its queerness, rather well on her work-

bitten hand.

The cat thought of something particularly outrageous and

screamed in an ecstasy of self-pity. "1 wish to goodness,"

said Mrs. McGurk out loud, "that cat would slop its yowling!"

On her hand, the dull bluish lump of stone in the ring

began to catch light. For a brief moment, it gleamed. The

dusty look of it seemed to bum away.

The cat stopped it. Abruptly. His current yowl, in fact. was

cut off in the middle and never finished. Silence poured down

like water and extinguished the noise.

Mrs. McGurk blinked. The precipitate quiet was just a

trifle uncanny. She listened with a curious eagerness for me

cat to resume, but it did not. She tok off the ring and dropped

it back on the bed, vaguely sorry, in an inexplicable way. that

she had ever touched it.

For just a moment, me things lying on the bed up here in

George's room were more than queer. Their antiquity was

worse than puzzling.

"Fifty?" said the old coin man. casually. His thumb came up

in a caressing pinch. His junior clerk wasn't breathing.

George made a low mirthful sound. "You've certainly

been helpful," he said cheerfully. "May I see your classified

directory?"

"One hundred dollars," said the man.

"Two hundred," said George gaily.

"It's a deal," snapped the man and now George staggered.

254 Charlotte Armstrong

In a tense silence, the junior took the coin, the money was

fetched and George signed something.

Then the tittle office bloomed with three wide smiles.

"I'm satisfied, you know," said George. "But I wish

you'd tell me . , ."

"Rare!" babbled the man. "Rare? Not even listed. And

indisputably genuine. The inscriptions, the feel of the gold

. . ." he rubbed his fingers, "greasy with time . . ." He

slapped me counter jubilantly. "Now tell me. Where did you

ge( it?"

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"Found it, like I told you," said George cheerfully. "I'm

certainly glad you liked it. Tell you what, if I ever run across

another one, I'll let you know. So long."

George went off jauntily. The boss's mouth curled. "He'll

bring us another one! Ha!"

"Ha ha!" echoed the clerk,

Mrs. McGurk had shaken off her funny feeiing. She went on

examining this queer collection, and at last she picked up the

little carved box with the sliding lid and looked sourly at the

rose inside. Artificial, she presumed. Yet ... no ... or, if it

was, it was a marvel! Her woman's eye could see as much.

,She touched it and the petals were sweet and cool. Mrs.

McGurk raised the box to her crooked nose. To her senses

came the unmistakable fresh nch fragrance of the living rose.

Just then, George opened his door.

Rose to nose, Mrs. McGurk looked full at him.

Until this day, Mrs. McGurk's impression of George had

been mild. Her trained gaze had gone over him and not

finding die mark of the complainer, or the destroyer of rented

property, or die innocent stare of the deadbeat, she had

looked no more.

This morning, however, he had offered her good faith and

fair play and she had been obliged to turn them down. Under

her tough protective crust still existed an uneasy heart that

knew and recognized her losses. George had what she had no

more ... the capacity for trusting- Something about him was

sweet to the core and it hurt! So, of course, she had been

stubbornly angry.

But now, as the perfume of the rose penetrated her senses,

THREE DAY MAGIC 255

something very strange happened to Mrs. McGurk. This crust

of hers seemed suddenly and for no cause to dissolve. Her

bosom swelled as if some withered seed, lying dormant in her

heart, had been touched by magic moisture so that it sprang

into life and began to grow. Looking full at George, the light

in her eye grew suddenly tender. How was it she had not

noticed before the gentleness of his eyes, the sweetness of his

smile? This was such a boy as one could be fond of, as if he

were one's own, almost. Mrs. McGurk had the sensation of

melting. She swayed a little. She put the rose, in its box,

down on me bed and she smiled.

Even in its best day, Mrs. McGurk's smile had been rather

terrifying, involving her long teeth bared to the upper gums

and somehow the illusion that the bulbous end of her nose

had taken a sudden twitch farther off center. "I'm sorry, Mr.

Hale," said she contritely. And her inner being swooned and

swam in the luxury of this humility. "I was rude and unjust

to you and I'm terribly sorry."

George realized at last what she thought she was doing

with her face. However, to him a kindly feeling was the most

natural thing in the world and he accepted it immediately.

"That's alt right, Mrs. McGurk. I was probably irritating.

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I've got the money, now," he added gently. "Do I owe you

anything?''

"My dear boy!" cried Mrs. McGurk, "of course not! You

paid me for two full weeks ahead! And you must stay! This

room is yours. I want you to feel at home!'*

It was the first tirnfi the sweet -sense of home had come to

her mind for years and years. Mrs. McGurk's eyes filled. She

wanted to do more for George. She tell a compelling urge to

make him happy. "Please let me show you my second floor

front," she snuffled. "Such a lovely room it is, Mr. Hale. It

would JUS! suit you! Only one flight up and a private bath."

"That's mighty nice of you," said George, somewhat

bewildered. "But you know I can't afford . . ."

"Same price!" cried she. "And handy to the phone!"

"Well, 1 ... nh ... if you say so." said George weakly.

"It's very nice of you. But I want to pay my full month

ahead. Please. 1 know it's your rule."

"One has to have rules, Mr. Hale. The people I meet. . ."

256 Charlotte Armstrong

"Sure. I know. I don't bla—"

"But I should have seen," said his landlady, "that you are

different!"

George realized, with some dismay, that Mrs. McGurk was

trying to be charming. There she stood, in her shapeless print

dress, with her hair piled up in the usual slapdash coiffure,

the same woman ... and yet ... The head was cocked,

now, in a kind of old-fashioned coquetry, the curled lip bared

the long teeth; the glance came sideways from under arched

brows, with the left eye not quite in focus- It was a formida-

ble sight'

George swallowed. But, being George, he gave her full

marks for effort. He thanked her.

"Oh, you will stay?" cried she. "I'll go right down. And

freshen up the room a bit. Don't bother about your things. I'll

move them. It's no trouble. I feel," said Mrs. McGurk "so

happy to have someone like you in the house, 1 can't tell

you . . . !" The brows ached with sweetness. She went out

with a bob and a flirt of her skirt.

George sank down on the bed. He robbed the back of his

head- The money was in his hand. He stared down at it. It

occurred to him that this was one of the strangest days of his

life.

But here was $200, here in his hand. He began to wonder

if there was more, disguised in the heap of stuff beside him.

He shoved the money into a pocket and reached for that flat

oval ... But his thoughts drifted off to Kathy. Now that he

had $200, was he any nearer? When would he see her again,

her sweet pretty face, the red-gold of her hair, the enchanting

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lights in her tawny eyes?

Kathy was standing in the middle of a dainty bedroom . . .

on a thick white rug . . . near a soft green chair . , .

George inhaled a great gasp.

He WOJ seeing her!

He had been looking absently into the burnished metal and

now it was acting like a mirror but what it reflected was not

here! He could see Kalhy!

He lifted the thing in both trembling hands. The vision did

not go. It trembled a little, but the tiny Kathy began to

fumble at the fastenings of her dress!

THREE DAY MAGIC 257

George's hair rippled OB the back of his neck. He'd heard

there were people who could see things in a crystal ball. Now

he, George Hale, of Deepen, Maine, was seeing things!

Why, the strength of his love was so great . . . !

Kathy began to wiggle out of her dress. She stood in her

slip. bare-shouldered, adorable. Another figure crossed the

little reflected scene. Frdulein!

Now, George knew darned well he wasn't in love with

Fraulein!

He breathed. He had to. The image in the Magic Mirror

shook with his body but did not fade.

Magic?

Kathy pushed the straps of her slip down and took hold of

it at the hem. She was going to take it off. No doubt of it.

Right now, across the Park. Kathy was undressing!

But George, in spite of his state of absolute astonishment,

was yet a gentleman, and. above all, he adored her. So he

tore his gaze away from the enchanted bit of metal, turned it

over, dull side up, and slid it away from him, under the

pillow.

He put his reeling head in his hands.

In a little while, he lifted his face. It was rather white. Not

every day does a man run into old-fashioned magic! Slowly,

be drew the pouch to him, opened it, and observed with only

a dull thud of verified suspicion the presence therein of

another golden coin. He took this out and put it in his pocket,

drew the thongs together for a moment, and looked inside

again. Sure enough. There lay the third coin. George left it

there. This was the Magic Purse that never stayed empty!

Here? On 69th St.?

But what else? Suddenly he was in a frenzy to know what

else. That carpet. Well, of course! He had no doubt it was the

one mat could fly! He got up and began to paw over his

strange loot. He took up the soft black cloak, put h over his

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shoulders, and vanished.

That is, of course, George remained standing right where

he was, but when he looked down along his body, he couldn't

see it! This was the Cloak of Darkness! The very one!

He shuddered out of the thing. Cold chills were racing in

258 Charlotte Armstrong

his spine. He hung the Cloak in his closet, aimlessly, without

thought-

Ah. the thing like a teapot' He recognized it now! He'd

seen it drawn, in a hundred illustrations. It was the Lamp, the

only Lamp that could qualify for this collection! Aladdin's!

Must be! Must be! But George wasn't going to rub it. Not

now. He didn't want to meet the Slave of the Lamp! Not this

afternoon!

George inched it aside. He was excited and he was scared.

He daren't stop and mink. That ring? Ah, but alt the old tales

were full of rings, with one magic property or another. He

slipped it on his finger, where it seemed to fit comfortably.

Nothing happened.

His eye lit on the pink stone flask and he picked it up. He

was convinced, now, that this, too, was. magically endowed.

Somehow, he had here the strangest of all collections.

(The little old proprietor must have known! How old? How

old was that man? A thousand? Five thousand? He'd said he

was tired! George trembled. Never mind. Don't think of it!)

Oh yes, everything here, logic insisted, must be magical.

The pink flask was heavy in his right hand. He rubbed his

head. *'l wish," he murmured, "murmured, "a little bird

would tell me what's in here."

In the Ring. forgotten on his left hand, and back of his

head, the dull stone brightened. It lit, like an eye that saw,

suddenly.

"Water from the Fountain of Youth." This sentence came

into me air. It was like a line of music, high and full of flats.

George turned his head in sharp alarm. Had he heard it? Or

thought it? No sound now, certainly. Only beyond the win-

dow sill. the flutter of wings . . . some sparrow . . .

Water from the Fountain of Youth! George loosened his

fingers- He wanted none of that! Suddenly, he wanted none

of any of it. He stripped off the Wishing Ring and threw it

down. He understood that one might wish to get rid of these

things.

It wasn't . . . well, it wasn't right! He wanted to crawl

back within the safety of the possible, the steadiness and

order of the natural world, the sane and simple world of

splitting atoms, of nebulae, of radar and penicillin.

THREE DAY MAGIC 259

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It is not so easy to believe in magic.

George paced up and down, conquering his fright, assimi-

lating his wonder.

There remained the Rose and the Sword. He mistrusted the

Rose. He had a shadowy recollection of the Rose and the tale

of the Rose. He picked up the Sword and drew it from the

scabbard.

It leaped in his hand. What a piece it was! George swung

his wrist over and sliced off the top of the bedpost. The hard

brass separated, clean and sharp. The upper six inches fell off

on the floor.

It was impossible not to take another swipe at something.

George brought his arm around. The Sword leaped and flashed

down through the back, the seat, the springs of his lough,

hard-cushioned leather chair. Clattering, it fell apart in two

perfectly neat sections. Wood, fabric, metal, anything' Lord,

tordy, what a sword! The Sword of Swiftness, or maybe

Excalibur itself! He whirled the blade around his head. Whis-

tling sweetly, it descended and cleaved the washbasin as if it

were butter. A chunk of the hard porcelain came clean away

and dropped with a bang on the floor. Lucky he'd missed the

plumbing, for heaven's sakes! George realized he'd better

restrain himself. This thing was dangerous! Much, much too

dangerous to play with.

He flicked the Sword at the window sill, cutting a swift

notch with the bare tip. He took a neat triangle delicately out

of the mirror. He fought temptation. Sweating, he made

himself take up the crimson scabbard and insert therein the

wicked and utterly fascinating blade.

(Outside, in the hall, Mr. Josef stood quivering. His beard

was agitated. His eye yearned for George's keyhole.)

But George sheathed the Sword and put it away from him.

He puffed out his breath. What to do now? Anybody else

might have run for a good stiff drink, but to George came the

thought that he'd had no lunch! No wonder he fell queer.

Besides, he'd think better on a hill stomach.

Oh, he hadn't forgotten what he was really after- It would

take more than a bag of magic to make George forget what

he'd wrapped his whole life around. Now, somehow, he was

Charlotte Armstrong

260

going to be able to ask for Kathy! All he had to do was calm

himself, and think it out!

He shoved all the stuff back into the carpet bag, or thought

he did. He hadn't counted the nine objects. He was too

excited to check. He forgot the Mirror, stil! under his pillow,

and the Cloak, in his closet.

The rest he packed and then he shoved the bag under the

bed with the instinct to hide it. He felt of his money. He was

whistling a Georgish version of Tonight We Love as he

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slammed out of his door, and went downstairs with swift

heels beating out the jig time of his tune.

No sooner did George depart, in the very backwash of the

sound of his going, Mr. Josef oozed across the hall. His ears

shadowed George out me door far below, checked the finality

of its slam. Then, softly, he put his own key into George's

lock. it yielded. Mr. Josef poured himself around the edge of

the door and inside.

He stared at the empty room as if he would hypnotize this

space to remain empty. The closet door was half-open. Mr.

Josef went slinking along the wail towards it, his right hand

in his pocket. Finally, he took a leap and a whirl and brought

himself up sharp with the closet door wide open and him

confronting and threatening George's blue serge and other

garments.

Mr. Josef watched the blue serge closely for a moment.

Then he took his hand out of his pocket, arranged the muscles

around his eyes, and began to rake the place methodically

with a narrowed glance. When he spied the chair, lying so

absurdly in two pieces, his eyes rounded. In fact, they popped.

But he moved coolly to examine it. He saw the washstand

and blinked incredulously at the thick raw edge where George

had sliced it, at the hunk of the outer curve that lay like a

piece of melon on the floor. As he crept over and touched it,

gingerly, mere came from deep in the house the thump of feet

on the stairs.

It was, in fact, Mrs. McGurk, coming up.

Mr. Josef rolled himself a glance of dark warning, via the

mirror. He took long crouching steps across to the door. He

skated down the hall.

THREE DAY MAGIC 261

When Mrs. McGurk. humming My Wild Irish Rose in a

gay wobbly soprano, had gone into George's room, Mr. Josef

slipped like a shadow in soft pell-mell down the stairs to the

telephone.

"X?"

"Y."

*'Z!" breathed Mr. Josef. "Listen, I have stumbled on

something terrific! I must have help at once! Something

bigger even than A. You know what I mean?"

"Frankly, no," said Y, wearily.

"A, I say!'*

"A for apple?"

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"No. no, no. Nuclear Fission," hissed Mr. Josef. "Send

Gogo, At once! I tell you, they have a secret weapon!"

"Yeah?"

<t! saw results with my own eyes, you fool! This is of

desperate importance! Mother must know!"

"Hm?0h, yeah," mumbled Y, "Mother Country, that is."

"Stupid!" Mr. Josef spat into the phone- "Send Gogo. At

all costs, I will secure for us this secret!"

"O.K." said Y. "Keep your shirt on. O.K. O.K."

"I will expect him here in five minutes," said Mr. Josef

silkily. He hung up, silkily.

Y looked across the plain office toward the other desk.

"Josef. That clown. He's got a spy complex."

"His is a spy," said the other man, placidly, "We all are,

I suppose." He wrote down a neat numeral.

"I'd better send somebody around, if only to keep an eye

on him. it's embarrassing. Why doesn't the FBI pick him

up?" frothed Y. "We've betrayed him, six times over."

The other man shook his head, went on totaling some

figures, compiling information received-

Y got on the phone again, angrily.

Mrs. McGurk stopped humming for a moment, when she saw

the broken chair, the washbasin, the bedpost. But the warm

flood of happy activity on which (under the spell of the Rose)

she was floating bore her right by such details. If George had

done the damage, he, being George, would of course make it

right. They would talk it over, once he was snug downstairs.

262 Charlotte Armstrong

She found his empty suitcase under the bed, beside an old

carpet bag, already packed. Mrs. McGurk opened George's

dresser drawers and began to fill the suitcase. At last, stag-

gering a little, she lugged both pieces to the top of the stairs

and started down.

The second floor front was a room of pleasing proportions-

Mrs. McGurk felt proud of it. Into the clean paper-lined

drawers of her best dresser she put George's clothing, fussing

daintily with the arrangement. She was an absolutely happy

woman. She was creating, with love. She was Making a

Home.

She closed the drawers. The top of die dresser was bare.

Ah, but his own things ... all the little touches . . . She

dove into the carpet bag. This flask, now, was a pretty thing.

But me metal lattice work seemed dull- Mrs. McGurk fetched

a rag and some scouring paste- Snatches of old tunes came

humming out of her as she worked. Her fingers felt tireless.

She was so light of heart that she wondered, intermittently, if

she was not coming down with something.

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At last the flask shone as bright as she could make it and

she set it on the dresser and cocked her head. It looked well,

but certain artistic instincts were stirring in Mrs. McGurk

today. It needed balancing. She dug into the carpet bag and

came out with the lamp.

Naturally, at the first swipe of her cleaning rag across its

surface, the Genie materialized. It seemed for a moment that

steam was pouring out of the spoutlike protuberance on the

lamp, but the cloud fell away rapidly to reveal a rather

pleasant-looking man, whose skin was on the dark side, and

who wore, of course, an Oriental costume of Aladdin's day.

He was standing in the air about a foot above the floor.

Mrs. McGurk leapt. She screamed! The lamp rolled off her

lap. Before the Genie had time to make his set speech about

being the Slave of the Lamp and so forth (which perhaps he

delayed in the process of translating it from the Arabic) Mrs.

McGurk cried, "Eek! Go away!"

The Slave of the Lamp, of course, obeyed her.

Mrs- McGurk stood trembling in an empty room. Then she

fled that place. Ricocheting from wall to wall, blindly, she

raced for the sanctuary of her kitchen.

THREE DAY MAGIC 263

George munched his lunch, considering ways and means. The

thing was, he concluded, to show the old man that Kathy

would be safe and sound as George's wife. even without her

inheritance. That George, all by himself, with his own re-

sources, could take care of her.

At last. George rose and paid for his meal and sloped his

course towards Mrs. McGurk's. stepping jauntily, trying to

beat down a persistent little twinge of uneasiness. He told

himself that with the Lamp, with the bottomless Purse, all

must be magically smooth. There was a legless man, begging

in me street. George put two fingers on the old gold coin in

his pocket, tossed it into me cup and went swiftly on. it made

him feel a trifle better to do this.

He had forgotten about his new quarters. He proceeded up

the stairs, as usual, put his key in the lock of the door, and

waltzed blithely in. Something hard jabbed him in the nbs. A

thousand motion pictures, from childhood on, had condi-

tioned him to know, at once, exactly what it was. His arms

began to go up.

The voice behind him said. "My dear Mr. Hate, won't you

... sit down?"

George saw the mocking eye of Mr. Josef, gleaming with

pleasure. A second man came from behind the door, a targe

creature with a flat impassive face. George recognized the

type. A henchman!

"Close the door." hissed Mr- Josef. The henchman kicked

it shut.

George let the tail of his eye explore the room. The bed-

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spread had been flung up over the pillow. He could see the

curls of dust on the bare floor under the bed. The carpet bag

was not where he had left it.

"Now, if you please," said Josef sternly, "the secret, and

quickly'"

"What secret?"

"Come now, Mr. Hale. Surely we needn't pursue the

childish course of torture?"

"I don*t know what you're talking about," said George.

"My money's in my pocket." He pointed with his elbow.

264 Charlotte Armstrong

Mr. Josef put his head to one side. "Gogo. he is going to

be stubborn.'*

"What did that?" said Gogo suddenly in a reasonable tone

of curious inquiry.

"Did what? Oh . . ." George saw that he meant the cut up

the washbasin. "Why ... uh ..." He swallowed hard.

" Accident,'^lie croaked. It did not seem possible to answer

this question. George realized he was in quite a spot. The

fourth floor was well removed from a policeman. The house

had been so quiet, no help could be in it. And there were two

of them.

"What kind of accident?" asked Gogo skeptically.

Josef shoved himself between them- The gun looked wicked

and unsafe in his gloved hand. "Mr. Hale, naturally you are

loyal to your government. But we will, you know, by one

means or another, possess this new ray."

"Huh?" said George.

Mr. Josef chuckled. "So it is a ray!" he purred triumphantly.

"Ray!" said George in perfect astonishment.

"You would never," teased Mr. Josef, "make your for-

tune on the stage."

George simply goggled-

"Can we bribe you, Mr. Hale?" inquired Josef suddenly.

"Bribe me to do what?"

"Oh, give us specifications. We wish to know me source of

this ray's power, how it is controlled, all about it. Come now."

"There is no such thing!"

Mr. Josef smiled.

"I don't know what you mean!" cried George.

Mr. Josefs eyebrows rose, pityingly.

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George knew. now, he had to get away. There wasn't

anything he could say. They had in their heads an explanation

for the damage in his room that was just about as preposter-

ous as the real one. They weren't going to listen to his

old-fashioned stuff. And torture wasn't going to get anybody

anywhere, especially George. He said, in an artful whimper,

"Don't hurt me." He stumbled back a little farther. '*! can't

tell you anything."

"A hero," said Mr. Josef regretfully. "Ah, well, we have

our little ways. No one regrets these necessities more man I

THREE DAY MAGIC 265

do," cried Mr. Josef, frothing a bit at the mouth, "but we

must know what you know, and know it now! And if we pay

eventually with our lives for what we do . . . be it 50!" The

gun quivered with his fervor.

George made up his mind and leaped backward into the

closet. He wound himself into the Cloak and leaped out again

as the gun in Mr. Josefs startled hand went off. The bullet

got George's blue serge in the heart, but George, in his gray,

invisible and whole, slid along the wall away from danger.

"A secret passage!" screeched Mr- Josef, tearing his beard.

He staggered towards the closet, eyes bulging. George lifted

an invisible foot and kicked Gogo hard on the seat. The shock

on the toe of his shoe felt wonderftri. He only wished it had

been Mr. Josef.

His visitors did not notice the door apparently open by

itself, for Gogo was growling in his throat, looking on all

sides for what had hit him. And Mr. Josef, with his eyes so

narrowed that he could hardly see at all, was frantically

clawing the inside closet wall.

George, still in the Cloak, flitted down to the second floor.

The carpet bag was there, all right. He had deduced as much.

Furthermore, it had been opened. George spotted the Flask.

Then he saw the Lamp, on the floor. When he also saw the

cleaning rag, where Mrs. McGurk had let it fall, George

deduced the rest.

He sighed. He supposed the poor lady had been frightened

out of her wits. He hated to sneak out on her now, especially

since she had been so kind. But he could not stay in the same

house with Mr. Josefs obsession. And his new plans in-

volved leaving here, anyhow.

So George scribbled a note. "Enclosed please find a full

month's rent . . . also what I hope will pay for the dam-

ages. . . . Many thanks for your kindness. ... All best

wishes ..."

Then he listened to the house- There was a muted, though

furious buzzing still going on upstairs. He guessed he was

safe here for a few more minutes.

George slid out of the Cloak and packed it- He took up the

Lamp. Gently and somewhat fearfully, he brought his palm to

its side and rubbed.

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266 Charlotte Armstrong

When the Genie appeared, George, having been braced for

this, found himself unalarmed. This Genie looked like a nice

fellow. Nothing ferocious about him. Little bit up in the air, of

course, George smiied cordially.

"I am the Slave of the Lamp," said the Genie slowly.

"What are your commands?" He used the broad A, George

noticed.

"Uh, how about getting me a reservation at the Waldorf

for the night?" asked George a bit nervously. "Single room,

with bath, of course. Name of Hale."

The Genie bowed his turbaned head. "I hear and obey,"

he murmured.

"Wail a minute." said George, more easily. "As long as

you're here, listen. You could build me a house, 1 suppose?

A real nice house, furnished, and with pretty grounds? Fix it,

with servants and all, so 1 could invite some people, say, to

lunch?"

The Genie bowed.

"Lessee," said George. "About how long would it take

you? Could 1 count on that by the middle of November?"

The Genie looked simply scornful. "By next week then?"

The Genie's expression remained haughty. "Tomorrow!"

cried George joyfully.

The Genie drew air whistling in through his teeth, "1 hear

and obey," he said, as before.

"Wait a minute. Don't be in a hurry," George wished this

fellow would relax and chat. "Fix it up ... say ... uh ...

in one of the nice parts of Westchester County. I want it to

look rich, you know. Maybe there should be a swimming

pool. But everything the best quality. Nothing flashy. How

will 1 know my address?" demanded George, who liked

things clear.

"I will return. Master."

"Call me ... uh ... Mr. Hale," said George, shudder-

ing- "And, by the way, the servants should be regular. Not

... uh ... slaves, y'know. O.K.? Then. tomorrow mom-

ing, I'll be seeing you."

The Genie appeared to shimmer in the air. George didn't

say any more. The Genie quietly vanished, George took up

the Lamp and packed it. He felt exhilarated, with something

THREE DAY MAGIC 267

"r"

"ai?

^>-r

fi^y?

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•'W

of me sensation of one who defies the laws of gravity on a

tight rope and walks on the wings of mere balance. Things

were moving fast all right.

He got out of the house without any trouble- The spies

must have stil! been rooting around in the upstairs closet, and

poor Mrs. McGurk was nowhere to be seen. George hefted

roe carpel bag and set off down the street. Whatever way he

was going, he knew he was headed for Kathy.

He went by way of the Waldorf. George's natural caution

. . . just common sense, after all ... told him he'd better

check on this Genie's powers, before assuming too much.

But everything was fine. The great hostelry swallowed him in

without a ripple in its digestion. George looked around the

room they gave him, which wa& extremely handsome, and he

decided the Genie must be the McCoy.

The time had come, here, now, and on the same day. He

could call up Kathy- His throat all but closed up when he

heard her voice. He managed to say, "It's George."

"Oh, George!" Kathy wasn't anything but glad. "Where

are you?"

"At the Waldorf."

"What?"

"Kathy, 1 ... did you miss me?" He knew it was ridicu-

lous, but he couldn't help it.

"Oh, George," she said. "I've missed you terribly!"

Then they both knew that they meant the long vista of empty

days ahead of them, not the mere afternoon behind.

"Kathy, darling," cried George, in spite of himself. "Will

you marry me?"

"I certainly will!" said Kathy. "Oh. George, I'm so glad

you called!"

"1 love you, I love you, I love you," he said.

"I'm so glad ... so glad you c-called. . . ."

George felt like crying, too.

"Are we going to run away?" she was asking. "Shall we

go to Maine? Oh George, let's! Mr. Blair can't do anything

that matters."

"Kathy. I'm going to ask him for you and he's going to be

glad about the whole thing ..."

268 Charlotte Armstrong

"But..."

"Listen, I want you and Mr. Blair to come to lunch

tomorrow at my house . . ."

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"Your house? Do you mean in Maine?"

"No, no ... my new house."

"But..."

"Tomorrow, Kathy. I'll call him up myself. You'll come

to lunch and you'll see. Because I can take care of you,

Kathy. And I can prove it. You're going to be surprised."

"George, are you coming over?"

He said, "Kathy, I'd better not, because 1 promised. Sweet-

heart, until I can ask him ... and 1 can, tomorrow . . .

Don't you see?"

"George, are we engaged to be married?"

"I meant to wait," he groaned.

"But you didn't and I said, 'Yes.' So we are!"

"We sure are!"

"Well, then," said Kathy, "I don't see what difference

anything else makes. Honestly. 1 don't. But do it your own

way. I'll give you till tomorrow."

"Kathy, don't be mad! Kathy, would you like an emerald?"

"I've got an emerald," she wailed.

George said. "I can't stand it! Will you meet me in the

tearoom on Madison, right now?"

"No," said Kathy, female that she was. "You promised.

Besides, I'm all dressed for the evening. Tomorrow, dear

. . . dear George . . ."

"Until tomorrow," said George, "Oh, dearest Kalhy . . .**

He loved her, he loved her, he loved her!

Most of Mrs. McGurk's roomers were in their rooms on

Sunday morning. Ordinarily, therefore, this was Her Day, to

which Mrs. McGurk looked forward as quite the liveliest day

in the week. But mis Sunday, she was not in the mood.

She was. in fact, disconsolate.

The evening before, having finally conquered her fright,

she had gone up to the second floor and found George's note.

It seemed to her to be the sweetest letter she'd ever had, and

it broke her heart. Mrs. McGurk did not see how she could

Go On.

THREE DAY MAGIC 269

Mysteriously, he had left his clothing behind in the draw-

ers. She puzzled alt night long over this. She hoped it meant

he would return, if only for a few minutes. . . . Oh, she

could not rent his room! No, indeed! It would remain as it

was, yearning for him, and maybe . . . someday , . , She

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took to comforting herself with dreams.

Came the dawn, she realized that there was no sense

maintaining two shrines to George's memory, on two differ-

ent floors. So, rather eariy Sunday morning- Mrs. McGurk

climbed up to his old room. She let herself in. Yes, she

thought sadly, here was the real shrine, after all. For had it

not been George, himself, who had broken that washbasin?

Mrs- McGurk saw other traces of his being, and she flung

herself on his bed for a good cry. Dimly, she perceived the

luxury of this, how even her tears were a bath and a refresh-

ing. Still, she wept with all her heart, until her nose, burrow-

ing against the pillow, met something hard.

She explored with her hand and drew out the Mirror.

Mrs. McGurk sat up and wiped her eyes. This, whatever it

was, had been His. Her hands caressed it- Oh, if he had only

told her where he had gone! She could let him know. She

could get in touch with him. But he had disappeared into the

outer world and she had no clue. Oh, would she ever again

see his dear face or his darling smile?

Mrs. McGurk was ready to fling herself howling into the

pillow once more, when she noticed a moving image on the

burnished metal surface she held in her hands. This was odd!

Stony with shock, Mrs. McGurk watched the magic scene.

She had been thinking of George, so, of course, it was

George she saw.

George was walking on grass, looking up at the facade of a

magnificent house. He moved beside beds of gorgeous flow-

ers. chrysanthemums in white and bronze masses. He strolled

on the edge of a great pool that lay like a jewel in the

leaf-strewn lawn.

But it was George.' George, with his hands in the pockets of a

new tweed suit. . . . Mrs. McGurk clutched the Mirror. She

was over 40. In her day, Bluebeard had murdered all his

wives but one without benefit of Dick Tracy. Ah, Mrs-

McGurk had known the old tales, the classics! Furthermore,

270 Charlotte Armstrong

just yesterday, she had seen a Genie! Now, two and two

whirled together in her head. She didn't understand, but she

recognized, and her heart began to beat in wild elation.

Even as she stared, George was strolling down a long

curving drive. Where was he? Where? Ah, if he kept on as he

was going, she might find out' Since it was the Magic Mirror

and her thought controlled it, the image shifted, running

ahead of George. Yes, there it was, on a stone pillar there at

the end of the drive. She began to mutter, over and over

again, "2244 Meadow Lane . . . 2244 Meadow Lane . . ."

Now George strolled into the scene and stopped, with that

look on his face. that dear baffled look he was wearing, to

touch his own name on the handsome mailbox.

Mrs. McGurk sighed in a flood of peace and joy. George

was at a place of his own and she had the address. She

pressed the Mirror to her heart. It should never leave her!

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Away down below, somebody was leaning on her doorbell.

Mrs. McGurk, light as a girl. flew downward. She thrust die

Mirror inside the bosom of her dress, where it was extremely

uncomfortable, flung open her front door, and lavished one of

her toothiest smiles on a perfect stranger who was teetering,

in an obvious rage, on the stoop.

"George Hale live here?" yelped mis man.

"He isn't here right now," tnlled she.

"You can tell him from me, he's a dirty crook!" cried the

calier. "Look at that!" In his trembling palm lay two old

gold corns, exactly alike. "You can tell him from me,"

stormed the rare coin dealer, for it was he, "that he needn't

send any more beggars around to my competitors with any

more of this junk! He can't kid around with the Law of

Supply and Demand! Maybe he tricked me once! But you tell

him, if any more of these show up, I'll get the government

after him for hoarding gold! And I mean it! Good day!"

"Good day," said Mrs. McGurk. She closed the door. Her

surprise gave way to a belated but loyal anger. She was about

to open and shout defiance at the enemy's back when she

realized that she was not alone. Somebody was breathing on

her neck.

it was Mr. Josef, who had crept close behind her in his

furtive way. He fingered his beard. His eyes were sly.

THREE DAY MAGIC 271

"Morning." said his landlady shortly.

"Oh. Mrs. McGurk," said the spy, "could you supply me

with Mr. Hale's forwarding address?" She looked at him

sourly. "1 am rather anxious to get in touch with him,"

drawled Mr- Josef "Something to his advantage . . ."

The end of Mrs. McGurk's nose twitched thoughtfully.

"You don't happen to have a street map, do you?"

"Many. Many." He rubbed his hands together. "Of what

district?"

"Well ... uh ... 1 don't know. You see, I ... happen

to have the street number, but not the ... uh ... commu-

nity," blushed Mrs. McGurk.

"Quite a pretty little problem!" cried Mr. Josef, in great

delight. "Come. we shall solve it. This," said he happily,

"is just the sort of thing I am rather good at. Ah, fear not!

We shall ferret him out, you and I!"

George had. somehow, envisioned a larger or perhaps fresher

copy of the old Hale house, when he had given his orders. He

had certainly expected something simpler in line and decor

than this! But the Genie, naturally, George supposed, would

have more Oriental ideas of what luxury was. Anyhow,

George conceded, it was sure some house! It would certainly

impress Mr. Biair. Since that was the point, George felt he

should be satisfied.

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It was still quite early Sunday morning. He had come up

by Genie. That is. as soon as he'd shaved and had breakfast,

he'd rubbed the Lamp- The Genie had materialized somewhat

tardily. He'd seemed rather out of breath, too, and there had

been definite beads of sweat on his coffee-colored brow.

George had asked him, in all sympathy, if anything was the

matter, but the fellow had only rolled his eyes in a stiff

unfriendly way. George didn't wish to offend by insisting.

He'd let himself be whisked up here.

In fact, George didn't know exactly where he was.

He'd gone through the whole place, picked out a suit he

liked, up in the master chamber, and put it on. He'd given

orders to the butler about luncheon. Now he was restless. He

was anxious to get Bennett Blair out here and impress him

and get it over with.

Charlotte Armstrong

272

He'd drive himself back into town. he decided, incidentally

finding out where he was and how to get back again. He'd

call for Kathy and her guardian in the ... lessee ... the

Cadiltac,

As he drove out the gate, a state cop stopped him. "You

live here?"

"Guess so," said George cheerfully. "Hate's my name."

"O.K.," said the cop mildly. He spat at the pavement.

"Say," said George, "what's the best way to get to New

York from here?"

The cop told him and George rolled smoothly off, waving

his thanks. In a mile or two, he wondered whether he had a

license plate. If so, was it on the records, somewhere in the

vast recesses of the Bureau of Motor Vehicles? George shook

off the thought. It made his head ache. He began to experi-

ment with the throttle. He felt, all of a sudden, that he'd

better hurry.

The cop, left behind, stayed where he was for a while,

nibbing his chin on his palm. gazing thoughtfully at the

house.

The. funny thing was, he'd been by here yesterday, and

there'd been no house.

His head was aching a little, too.

Mr. Blair sat like an old toad, motionless, in the tonneau.

The sweet air blew on him in.vain. When they turned in at

the gates, however, he roused. They bowled up to the front

entrance. A manservant came to hand them from the car. The

butler stood respectfully in the great doorway.

Within, sunshine sifted through splendid drapery to glow

on the polished floor. This entrance hall alone would knock

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the old man's eye out, thought George to himself. The great

stairs winding up, the rich dark paneling, the white cockatoo

in his silver cage, adding that one exotic note . . .

Kathy said, "Oooooh!"

Mr. Blair said nothing. George led them into the drawing

room. It was baronial. On the vast floor lay a rug of such

exquisite color and pattern, such size, such texture, that Mr.

Blair was forced to cover a covetous gasp with a fake clearing

of his throat. George bit on his own smile. Blandly, he

THREE DAY MACK: 273

ordered cocktails in the library. Then, with the tail of his eye

on the old man's face, George ushered them through the

green-and-silver music room (with its silver piano) to the

colossal coziness of the library. A soft fire bloomed in me

grate. Cocktails came at once in a gold-and-crystal shaker.

The somber beauty of the room was absolutely still. Kathy,

since her first gasp, had made no sound. Mr. Blair was

stricken dumb. But he was not paralyzed. He walked to

and fro. He went over to the bookshelves and drew out a

volume or two. Then he began to pat his hand along the shelf

and mutter in his throat. He went close to a painting, peering

at the comer of it. He turned on George.

"You inherited this place!"

"Well, in a way," said George. "Anyhow, it belongs to

me, sir."

"Furnished, as it is?"

"Oh, yes. Sure."

"Did you know," demanded Mr. Blair, going so far as to

point, vulgarly, with a forefinger, "that whole shelf there is

all first editions?"

"is that so?" said George pleasantly.

"That rug in the other room . . . Where did it come from?"

"It was just here," said George.

"You realize this is a Matisse?" snapped Mr. Blair, indi-

cating the painting.

"I'll be darned," said George feebly. "I guess I hadn't

noticed."

What there was of hair on Mr. Blair's head seemed to stir

as if it would rise on end. He fell into a chair and seized his

drink, thirstily.

Kathy went over to look out of the window. George stood

behind her. "It's pretty ... uh ... big ..." he murmured.

Kathy nodded. "Too big," said George quietly.

Kathy leaned back just enough to seem to say, "Thou art

my shield ... in thee I trust . . ."

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"Don't worry," he whispered. "We don't have to live

here." She turned her cheek against his lips.

Meanwhile, Mr. Blair had picked up a small china bowl

from the table. Now he looked at the underside of it and

began to curse softly. .

274 Charlotte Armstrong

"Looking for an ashtray, sir?" George gave a hostlike

leap. "I guess that will do, won't it, sir?"

Mr. Blair cast George a wild glance and leaned back and

blew his breath in puffs toward the ceiling.

Luncheon was served in the 40-foot dining room, where

they gathered like two kings and a queen in great carved

chairs- At once, Mr. Blair began to examine the lace in the

tablecloth.

"Kinda pretty, isn't it?" George beamed innocently. "My

Aunt Liz used to crochet a lot."

"Your Aunt Liz," exploded Mr. Blair. "never crocheted

this!"

"Well, no, of course she didn't."

"Came with the place, eh?"

"Oh, yes . . .*'

"Don't know much about lace, do you?"

"Well—uh—no."

"No." said Mr. Blair.

Kathy was looking blankly at the china, the crystal. Her

puzzled eyes kept coming back to George's face, to say, "It's

all right, of course. Because it's you."

George squirmed a tittle. He fell, himself, that the food

was, well, astonishing. He had tried to tell me butler what he

would like served for this meal, but he must have been .

vague, or left a lot of leeway somehow, because he didn't

recognize one single dish. Akhough it tasted fine. Mr. Blair

seemed to think so-

Also, the butler kept filling wineglasses with different

kinds of wine, and each time, Mr. Blair would sip and then

close his eyes as one in pain. George didn't drink much wine.

It all tasted alike to him anyhow, he explained cheerfully.

Kathy sal, hardly eating anything but a little of the cucumber

mousse, and George couldn't really eat, either-

Just so Mr. Blair had a good lunch. Because after lunch

would be the time to ask him.

In the drawing room, George's manservant brought cigars

and coffee.

George cleared his throat. "Mr. Blair, 1 wanted you to

come today because ..."

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THREE DAY MAGIC

275

"Yes." Mr. Blair's attention came away from the furnish-

ings with a snap.

"Because I want to marry Kathy." said George. "I wanted

to show you that I can take care of her. So now I... uh ...

ask your permission to ... uh ..." George forgot the

sentences he had made up ahead of time. *"1 love her so

darned much!" he cried. "And she . . ."

Kathy's hand was in his. It had flown there. "Me. too,"

said Kathy. Their hands, holding each other tight, lifted

between them, entreating him.

Suddenly Mr. Blair looked very old and very patient. He

said gently, "I take it all this magnificence is supposed to

impress me."

"It does," said George, sharply, for him.

"Oh, it does. It does, George," conceded Mr. Blair. He

leaned back and said. coldly. "I would like very much to

meet what friend of yours so kindly loaned you this place for

me day."

George said, "Nobody loaned it to me, sir. It's mine."

"You will produce certain proofs?"

"Proofs?"

"A deed to the property, perhaps. The inevitable records

of ownership. My dear chap. this is rather astonishing, you

know. For Kathleen's sake, I must see the proof, and you

cannot afford to be offended that 1 ask for them."

"Well, of course not," stammered George. "Gosh. I..."

"However," said Mr. Blair, "granting the existence of

such proof, if you then think you have proved your capacities

in such a way as to satisfy me, I am sorry you are so

deceived. What you have done," said Mr. Blair, opening his

eyes wide with an effect of pouncing, "is exactly the oppo-

site! You've proved yourself a perfect ignoramus!"

"Huh?"

"You have no more idea what is in this houae than a

Hottentot!" rasped Mr. Blair. "You offer me a bowl of

priceless porcelain for an ashtray! You never heard of Matisse!

Don't tell me! How you imagine that 1 will permit . . ."

"Just a minute," said Kathy, very quietly. "George and I

arc engaged to be married.''

Charlotte Armstrong

276

"I'm Sorry to hear that. Kathleen," said her guardian

levclly and coldly.

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"Wait," cried George- "Maybe I don't know very much,

but I can learn, and anyhow, it doesn't malter!"

"It matters," snarled Mr. Blair. "Kathleen's fortune will

never pass into the hands of . . ."

"I don't need Kathy's fortune!"

"1 don't care!" said Kathy.

"Sit down. Kathleen," barked Mr. Blair. "There a good

deai that must be explained. I want to know, and so should

you, my dear. exactly how a saxophone player without a

penny to his name, yesterday, claims to be in possession of a

place like this, today. If, as 1 all along suspected, he's only

borrowed it, then he is a cheat. And you'd better know it. So

sit down.''

With an expression of disdain on her face, an expression

that signified her perfect faith in George, Kathy sat down.

"Now," snapped Mr. Blair. "Do one of two things, George,

if you please. Produce your papers and explain how you got

them- Or name the real owner." Suddenly Mr. Blair's toe

rubbed across the soft silk of the rug, as if it had been

wanting to do so for minutes. "In a way," he said, with

genial brutality, "I hope you can prove yourself the owner,

because if you do, George, I intend personally to swindle you

out of several things you don't yet know you've got here."

George looked about him, wildly. It was if his fairy god-

mother had turned and bit him.

But then the butler, at George's elbow, said, "I beg par-

don, sir."

"Hm?"

"People are approaching me house, sir. In fact, there are

persons at me door. 1 don't quite know what you wish in the

malter ..."

They all became aware of crowd noises. George strode to

the window. Men were milling around out there.

"Excuse me," said George. He walked down the long

drawing room to me hall and he opened the front door. The

first face he saw was mat of the cop he had spoken to that

morning. "Say, what is all this?" asked George, in his

friendly fashion

THREE DAY MAGIC 277

Everybody began to talk at once. The group converged on

the door. It advanced and invaded. George was soon sur-

rounded. Competing voices rose louder and louder.

"Who inspected your wiring here?" "Permit?" "Fire law

says . - ." "Why didn't the Building Department get an

application?" ."I'm from the union . . ." "Who put in the

plumbing here?" "Zone . . ." "You can't put up a prefab

unless . . ." "My client . . ." "Second mortgage . . .*'

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"Title . . ." "Tax ..."

Somebody was snapping the lights off and on. It seemed

that others were darting off in all directions, into the depths

of the house. "Hey!" said George.

"Electricians local won't . . ." "Painters and Paperhang-

ers got a beef if you . . ." "Where's your meter?"

Some were returning and screaming now.

"My God, he's into the gas lines'" "Who inspected . . ."

"What about the sewers? He can't. . ." "Wait till the water

company . . .!" "Slap a summons on him . . ." "Wrong-type

construction . . ." "Have to tear it out. . ." "Permit. . ."

George, in the center of the mass, struggled.

A little dark man screeched. "Telephone!" He fought his

way towards the instrument. "Can't be a telephone," he

whimpered. Now the state cop was braying down the noise.

He achieved an uncertain quiet. He said, in it, "O.K., Mr.

Hale. Your turn," The whole house vibrated.

The little man could be heard moaning low into the phone.

"You're wrong. Operator! There is no such number!"

George clutched his hair. "Listen, I ... I don't know

what to say." A wordless growl rose from the pack "I didn't

mean to break the regulations."

The state cop said sourly, "I figgered, when I saw this

place, which wasn't here, yesterday ... I figgered you mighta

forgot a few dee-tails."

"This ain't no prefab!" said one. "Moved it in?" "Say,

listen, you can't move a house . . ." "Permit?" "Wait till

Ac office opens . - ." "Jeese," said one, furiously, "who

does this guy think he is!" "Yeah," they cried, "who do

you think y'are?"

Kathy, cowering in me sofa, murmured, "Oh, please, Mr.

278 Charlotte Armstrwig

Btair!" Her guardian, who had sat stonily through the begin-

ning of it, now rose.

"Not here yesterdecyV said the gas man suddenly, with

distended eyeballs. They grew quiet. All grew quiet. Mr.

Blair stood still.

"Not here!" screamed the white cockatoo, from his silver

cage. "Not here!" Something like a shudder passed through

the crowd. They moved closer to each other. They seemed to

press in on George now, silently. Their breathing alone was

very loud.

"Yesterday! Yesterday!" squawked the pink-eyed bird.

George threw out his arms, thrusting them back. "Now

listen, whatever I have to do to make this right, I'll do. So go

away. Write me letters, will you?"

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"Will you?" said the cockatoo.

Sound began to swell again from their throats. It was

working up.

"My name is Blair," said that gentleman- "Bennett Blair,"

The perfume of his wealth, the strong odor of much money,

was wafted on the heated air- "I think my young friend."

said Mr. Blair with the faintest accent on the significant

noun, "is right. I fear his impetuous haste has cut a lot of red

tape- But ..." His fish mouth closed, his cold eye held

mem. "Red tape doesn't bleed, you know." They gave him

their murmuring chuckle, on cue. They shifted their feet in

soft confusion on the carpet. "So suppose we go about mis in

some orderly fashion. Tomorrow is a business day . . -"

"Yeah, that's right . . ." "Good enough for me, Mr.

Blair." "Sure, let the office handle it." "1 wouldna come

out here, only Joe called me." "Proper channels ..."

"Sure . . ."

The little man at the phone had dropped his head on his

arm. "Ah ... no ..." he kept moaning. He was cursed

with imagination. He contemplated the System, the ramifica-

tions, the delicate, vast, and incredibly dainty complexity . . .

He stared starkly into the floor with white eyes.

"I'm afraid," said Mr. Btair. with distaste, "this man is

unwell ..."

"Come on, Riley." Somebody scooped up the telephone man.

"Give him air." "Come on. you guys. Get him outa here."

THREE DAY MAGIC 279

Thus, Mr. Blair, by a potent and rather frightening magic

of his own, got them all out of there. George wiped his face.

The jittery butler closed the door. Then Mr. Blair allowed

himself to tremble.

"George," he said, with a fearful quaver. "Was this house

here yesterday?"

"No," said George, and sent Mr. Blair tottering.

"For the love of heaven, boy!"

"I was going to explain," said George. "1 will. Gee! Now

I understand! Poor fellow! No wonder he looked pale! Things

must have gotten a little complicated since his day." He

pulled himself together and smiled at Kathy. "Wait,",he

said, "till 1 get my carpet bag. Let's go into the library, shall

we?"

So George explained.

Now, Mr. Blair lay back on the leather sofa. His hooded

eyes were brooding. Kathy, beside him, rested her cheek on

her hand. George was sitting on the floor, the other side of

the low table on which he'd spread his bagful of uncanny

property. The big room was filled with somber light. Outside,

it had come on to rain. Leaves rattled in the wet wind. But

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the high thick book-lined walls around them were ramparts of

silence.

Kathy said, dreamily, "I suppose when he built a palace,

in me old days, it would stand all by itself."

"Sure," said George. "No ... uh ... connections." He

looked sadly at his collection. "I guess this stuff is kinda out

of date. 1 wish I had the Mirror, though. It was wonderful."

Kathy smiled. "Was it something like television?"

George smiled back at her. "But without any sound. Doesn't

it seem as if a lot of things people have wished for, they've

got?

"I guess you tend to get what you wish for," dreamed

Kathy. "more or less like magic."

"Too bad . , ."

"Yes, too bad," she mused. "People wish for ways to kill

and yet be far away. . . . Can you unwish? What if there gets

to be too much of some kinds of magic?"

"Well," said George stoutly, "look . . . magic can go out

280 Chartottf Armstrong

of dale and get outgrown. Men go past it. People change the

way they think and the day comes ... we just have no use

for some kinds."

"Of course," said George, louder, "you'd be able to live

pretty comfortably with these things to fall back on."

Mr. Blair raised his head-

"Anyhow, sir," said George to him directly, "now you

see why, if there's anything in this house you want, you're

welcome to it."

The old man looked around the room. "No," he said.

"Not now. I don't want these first editions, George. Or that

painting. .God knows what it is. It isn't human! So what does

h mean?" He fidgeted. "The aroma's gone. The patina. Do

you know what I mean?"

"It's kind of phony," said George sadly. "Then I can't

bribe you, hm?"

Mr. Blair said nothing for a long moment. His crabbed

hands massaged his knees. "Maybe you can bribe me," he

said at last. "Maybe you can."

George was very quick. "Any of this stuff?" He gestured

towards the table. "Because I'd rather have Kathy."

Kathy said quickly, "I'd rather, too."

"Money and power," mused the old man, staring at the

table, "1 have. I've had a long time. Furthermore, I worked

for it. 1 carved it out. No, there's only one of your little

gadgets, George, that . . . tempts me. somewhat."

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Slowly, George reached out. "You're welcome to this

Rask."

Mr- Blair grunted his admiration. "Yes," he said, "I ...

thank you, my boy. I somehow feel you are going to be ...

right for Kathleen. You may take it that I withdraw any

objections."

George looked at Kathy Joyfully and she smiled like a rosy

angel.

Mr. Btair's gnarled hand closed softly on the pink stone

Flask. He rested it on his knee. His head dropped forward.

Chin on breast, me old man sat dreaming.

George snatched at the Ring. "Would you wear this ...

temporarily?"

Kathy said, "If you want me to."

THREE DAY MAGIC 281

He put it on the proper finger. He drew her up out of the

seat. They skipped off together, out of the amber-colored

room entirely. Her shoulder tucked under his, they slipped

around me dreaming old man. They closed the door between.

In the green-and-silver music room, they kissed, and then,

George, holding her, could not speak, so filled was he with

happiness.

In a little while, they sat down on a window bench in a

nook behind the silver piano. George just could not say a

word. He just kept looking at her ... dear, darling, delicious

Kathy'

Kathy smiled and then her eyes grew moist and she smiled

again. She looked down at the Ring- She twisted it. She put

her head on George's shoulder and out of George came a soft

sound like a purr, wordless, and not even chopped into

thoughts at all.

Kathy sat up a little straighter and blinked her eyes. **1 . . .

I wish it would stop raining." she said, just aimlessly, grop-

ing for the earth.

It slopped raining.

"George." she said, "this Ring winked at me!"

* 'Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm?''

"it seemed to. Oh, I suppose it caught the sun." The sun

was shining. Kathy turned her wondering head to look out,

and George kissed her. She pushed him away a little, laugh-

ing. "1 feel so funny," she admitted. "Do you? As if it all

happened so suddenly. Oh, dear, 1 wish I hadn't eaten those

cucumbers."

The prompt distress on George's face was comical. "Oh,

never mind, silly," laughed Kathy- "It isn't import . . ."

Lips parted, she looked down with quick suspicion at her left

hand. For me taste of cucumbers had vanished. She said, in a

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funny little voice, "George ..."

"Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm?" He was still in a state.

"Oh . . ." she burst out. "1 wish you'd say something'"

"I love you," said George immediately. "I love you so

much I can hardly talk- Wheeee! Kathy, darling, I thought I'd

lost my voice."

But Kathy was staring at the Ring. "It winked again.

George, do you suppose ... ?" She looked around the

282 Charlotte Armstrong

room. "George, wouldn't you like to be up in Maine, right

now?"

"I don't care where we are," he babbled.

Kathy said, rather slowly, quite deliberately, "I wish we

were in Deeport, Maine."

Nothing happened.

The stone in the ring remained dull and lifeless. It felt

heavy on her finger.

"Oh," said George, catching on, "you thought it was a

Wishing Ring! Say, maybe it is!"

"Maybe," said Kathy thoughtfully. "One person gets just

three wishes. Isn't that so?"

"That's the rules and, regulations, the way I heard it,"

babbled George. "The heck with them." He kissed her.

But Kathy's fingers moved. The forefinger . . . rain! The

middle finger . . . cucumbers! The ring finger . . . yes, in-

deed! George had said something!

"it's a bad habit," said Kathy, when she could, "to go

around saying 'I wish' all the time."

There was a middle door of this room, and now the knob

turned, the door cracked. "Beg pardon, sir. A Mrs. McGurk

is here to see you. Are you engaged, sir?"

"Damed tooting I am!" replied George happily. "Mrs.

McGurk here! For heaven's sakes! Come on. Kathy. i want

you to meet her. Let's tell her! Gee, I've got to tell somebody!"

Mrs. McGurk was waiting in the drawing room. She was

dressed as for church. Her hat was last Easter's madness, and

under it her hair was crimped violently. Her face was stiff

with peach-colored calsimine, and she'd left a little lipstick

on her long teeth.

It wasn't in George to rebuke the surge of affectionate

pleasure that brought her two hands reaching out to him. The

hat and the calsimine did not obscure, from him, the real

moisture in her eye. "It's nice to see you." said he cordially,

and bent to pick up her handbag off the floor. It was one of

those soft suitcases. There was something hard and heavy in

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it. "Did you get my note?"

"Oh, I did! I did!" She gave him a Look.

But George didn't notice. "Kathy."

THREE DAY MAGIC

283

Mrs. McGurk became aware of Kathy, graceful in a soft

blue wool frock, moving up within George's arm, with her

red gold mane so near his shoulder. "Mrs. McGurk, this is

Kathy Douglas. Kathy . . . Mrs. McGurk . . ."

The landlady's head, which had frozen in mid-nod, went

on with the gesture it had begun. Then she swerved and

tapped George on his forearm. "But oh ... please, George,

'Constance'? My name, you know?"

"Uh . . . very pretty name," said George feebly. He took

a step back. He had a horrid suspicion.

"Have you come far. Mrs. McGurk?" said Kathy politely.

"Just from the city," said Mrs. McGurk with a lofty sniff-

"A friend with a car drove me."

"But how did you . , .?"

Mrs. McGurk cut George's question off. It could only lead

to her surrender of the Minor. So she ducked it. "Oh,

George," she cried. "I thought you should know! A man

called. He made the nastiest threats. Something about

gold ..."

"Gold?"

"Coins, you know. He had two of them. He seemed to

think you had deceived him."

"Oh, gosh!" said George. In his mind he ticked off the

bottomless Purse. Obsolete! "Well, it was kind of you to

bother." George whipped back to his main concern. "Mrs.

McGurk, what do you think? I'm going to be married. Kathy's

promised!"

"I'm so glad," said Mrs. McGurk, with fingers turning

white on the handbag. "It isn't going to make any differ-

ence," she blurted.

"What?" said Kathy.

"I want you to go on thinking of my house as home,"

wailed Constance. "And if ever"—she now shot a hard

suspicious look at Kathy—"you are troubled and need a

friend ..."

"1 beg your pardon," said Kathy. "George, dear, is this a

relative of yours?"

"No. no. Mrs. McGurk runs a rooming house where I ...

she was very kind," said George desperately. He backed

away.

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284 Charlotte Armstrong

"1 understand!" cried Constance, dramatically. "Now,

you have all this! The world is at your feet! Only remember,

my dear. glitter isn't everything. Kind hearts do count. . ."

"Glitter?" said Kathy, a bit tensely.

"And a pretty face and a hank of red hair," went on the

landlady, quite carried away, "may not take the place of ..."

"What place?" asked Kathy ominously.

"Of one who . . . boo hoo hoo ... oh ... hoo . . ."

"George,** said Kathy. smoldering, "if you'll excuse me,

please ..."

"Don't, Kathy. Mrs. McGurk, now, you mustn't cry."

Mrs. McGurk's hat was askew. So was her nose, even

more than normally. "George, she isn't right for you! For-

give me! But I think of you and you only. See how cold she

is! George, think! Before it is too late!"

In Kathy a dam busted. "I'm sony, but she can't come in

here and say things like that!"

"She doesn't know what she's saying," said George in

anguish. "Just . . . just bear with it . . ."

"Wouldn't it be simplest if she ... left?" asked Kathy

brightly.

"You see!" The landlady clung to George's hand. "She'd

turn me out of your life! Your true friend, George ... the

truest friend ..."

"Now, wait a minute." George held out his other hand to

Kathy. "She's not to blame, Kathy. She can't help it. I

realize what must have nap—I can explain."

But Kathy's mane rippled and flared with the swing of her

body. "Maybe you'd better take this back." She pulled off

the Ring and smacked it into his palm, "until you do!"

"Kathy!"

"Oh, evil temper!" cried Mrs. McGurk.

"Mr. Blair," called Kathy. as she ran. "I want to go

home. Mr. Blair, please . . ."

George ripped his hand from Mrs. McGurk's moist grasp

and rounded on her. "Now see here! Rose or no Rose. you're

going to have to understand, Mrs. McGurk. As far as I'm

concerned you were kind . . . sometimes . . . and that's all!

You can't insult my girl and I won't . . . What's that?"

At the window there was a profile, pressed against the

THREE DAY MAGIC 285

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glass. Its eyes squinted to peer through its own shadow. Like

a strange outlandish piece of vegetation, the hair of its beard

hung there.

It was Mr. Josefs face. of course.

George said, "How ... ? He ... Who ... ?" He

shoved the Ring on his finger. His hands curled into fists.

"Mr. Josef brought me," wailed Mrs. McGurk. "Oh

George, don't be mad at me! I can't bear it!" She burst into

tears.

"Excuse me," said George. He dashed off towards the

music room, the way Kathy had gone.

The old man sat dreaming. Memory, flowing like water,

gentiy exploring the vast fields of past time. Ah, the long,

long days of his life! How various they had been. How . . .

after all and on the whole ... he had enjoyed them! How

wise he felt! How vividly he could now see the interplay of

influences, how he had been deflected, in what ways, and

why.

He should be tired. Well, he was tired, the old man

thought, often and often. But the fatigue was in his body, his

bones, his sinew. Not in the mind. A mind, fortified with so

much experience, could play the game of life on a different

level. All was illuminated, now. He saw further ahead, fur-

ther behind. If it were not for the weariness of his flesh . . .

what fun! What fun!

Young in spirit, he thought complacently, I have kept, for 1

have only refined my taste, not lost my appetite.

He roused from his reverie to realize he was alone. They'd

gone, the young pair. Gone to embrace, to murmur plans. He

knew. He knew. It was a shame and a pity and a waste . . .

yes, waste! . . . that all he knew, all he remembered, all he

had learned with such difficulty, so many pains ... all this

was tied to a declining body, chained to the span of a creature

who must, at the appointed hour, long since struck for him,

begin to die.

Mr. Blair took the stopper out of the Bask. He'd seen old

flasks of this type. He knew the trick. It was one of the little

barnacles of knowledge that had accumulated to him. He

sniffed at the neck of the Flask and detected no smell. He

looked about him for a vessel- There was his coffee cup. He

286 Charlotte Armstrong

emptied the dregs into a saucer- He drew out his handkerchief

and wiped the cup quite dry.

There were no printed instructions on any label. He shook

the Flask. Then he tipped it up and poured a tittle liquid out

into the cup. A fleeting fear of poison or ... worse ... flat

disappointment (for perhaps il was plain water) crossed his

mind. But he faced the chances. Lips touched the rim. He

drank.

It was perfectly tasteless.

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He put down the empty cup and sat quietly where he was.

He closed his eyes. A tree, in early spring, before it pushes

forth its buds, must fee! a deep interior thrill . . .

Mr. Blair had a moment to think this gentle thought and

then he experienced a kind of personal earthquake, a sensa-

tion so entangled with that of speed that he was out in the

clear at the other time-side of the whole shaking experience

before he could tell himself what it felt tike!

He opened his eyes and the room leapt into clarity. He could

see, but how marvelously well! He'd forgotten how it was to

see with a depth of focus, without glasses, with young eyes!

He bounded off the sofa. Oh, the spring in his legs! The

freedom to move quickly' The strong responding pump of the

willing heart!

But his clothes were all askew. His trousers were far, far

loo loose at the waist. His coat was tight on the edge of his

shoulders. Its tail was out like a bustle in the back. Mr. Blair

unbuttoned his vest. He had to. He flexed his biceps. He held

out his hands before him and saw that they were young.

He felt of his face, patting it with loving frantic fingers. He

felt of his hair. Ah, the warm plenty of it! The soft thatch, the

crisp wave at the temples! (ll was blond and parted in the

middle.)

George's butler crossed, with grave mien, the kitchen of

George's house and said to the cook, who was his wife,

"Marie, we've decided right. We give notice.'*

She nodded. "I don't like it, Edgar. It's odd. Those men

running in . . ."

He leaned closer. "It is very odd. For instance, the master

has a woman by each hand, in the drawing room.''

THREE DAY MAGIC 287

"Teh . . . t"

"There is also a man with a beard going around the house,

looking in at the windows."

"My!"

"Also . . . don't be alarmed, Marie . . . there is another

man, a big fellow, watching this back door."

"Ooh . . ." said Marie. "That is odd, isn't it?"

"And," said the butler, "a strange young gentleman 1

never saw before is standing on his hands in the library.'*

"Standing on his hands!"

"As 1 breathe! Feet in the air!"

"Odd," she said. "No place for us, Edgar."

"Oh, no," he said. "Certainly not!"

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Kathy ran through the music room. She fell against the door

to the library. "Mr. Blair!"

Mr. Blair, enjoying the sweet coursing of his blood, never-

theless realized that he must stop this mere jumping about.

There were bound to be certain problems. He must face them.

He must contrive to avoid the hurrah and the vulgarity of

public knowledge, and blend this miraculous renaissance into

a prosy world without an uproar. He would, somehow, ar-

range for old Bennetl Blair to fade away. Yes, and he would

substitute himself as his own . . . what? Grandnephew! Ben-

nett Biair 2nd! He fancied that! He would, for instance,

change his signature.

Wait . . . ! Mr. Blair took out his pen, snatched a book,

and scribbled his name on the margin. Good heavens! Not so!

On the contrary, he must leam to forge his own signature and

force this smooth young script into the former crabbed scrawl

of his ripened personality.

He laughed out loud. It didn't worry him.

Somehow, Mr. BIair's wise old mind (and it saw and knew

and didn't care) was being subtly altered by the vigor of his

new young body. That Cloak, for instance. He'd been indif-

ferent to it. Might be a lot of sport, though, it now occurred

to him. He chuckled. He picked up the little box. George had

warned them not to touch it, or he would have put the Rose in

his lapel out of sheer exuberance.

288 Charlotte Armstrong

Good fellow, George! They could be friends, pals. side-

kicks, buddies . . . Amused at the layers of slang that lay like

strata in his memory, Mr. Blair, just exercising another of his

five rejuvenated senses, lifted the box and smelled the Rose.

He drew the perfume. Ah . . . !

He heard his name. Kathy turned the knob. She opened the

door-

Dead silent astonishment held them both.

Kathy caught on quickly. She got her voice back. "M-Mr.

Blair?"

"Call me Bennett!" he said in a rich tenor. "Oh please,

Kathleen. Oh, how lovely you are! I have never seen you

before. Kathleen, do you know me? I am young again, and

oh, my dear ... I am young again for you! Kathleen,

beautiful darling, mis miracle is ours!"

"OA!" she screamed. "Oh no!" She slammed the door

between them. George tore in from the drawing room.

"What's the matter?"

"He's yuh-yuh-young! He's talking about Move!"

"That damned Rose!" said George at once. "Mrs. McGurk.

too. It is the Rose of Love. It makes you fall ..." .

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"Oh!" She was enlightened. "Oh, George, forgive me, I

didn't understand. But oh, take me away from here." She

was unnerved and trembling with shock.

"Wait, there's a spy ... that crazy Josef . . ."

She started blindly toward the drawing room. "Not in

there," warned George. He whisked her through the middle

door to an elbow of the great hall. They were together, and

this was good. This was, however, about the only factor that

could be called good or even fair among all the existing

circumstances, as George soon discovered.

He peered toward the front door. The big Cadillac was still

standing in the drive. They might pass swiftly across the

arch, ignore Mrs. McGurk . . . "Wait a minute," said George.

"Nope. He's right out there. Josef. He's dangerous, believe

me. We can't go that way, not that way."

They stood, arm and arm, in a quandary.

Mr. Blair moved swiftly through the empty music room. At the

drawing room door he came face to face with Mrs. McGurk.

"Where is she?" "Where is he?" they cried.

THREE DAY MAGIC 289

"Whoops!" said George, in the halt. He drew Kathy into

the morning room on the opposite side of the house-

Mr. Blair strode over the great silk rug, his young feet

spuming its fabulous beauty. He burst into the hall, flung

open the front door. He cried into Josef's startled beard.

"Hey, have you see a beautiful red-haired girl?"

Mr. Josef, confounded, tried to look as if he were waiting

for a streetcar. But Mr. Blair, seeing the Cadiltac still there,

slammed the door and stood with his back to it. If only he

could find her! He'd done wrong. He'd frightened her. Great

tides of potential gentleness, deep wells of soothing charms

surged restless in his breast- If only he could find her!

George and Kathy slipped from the morning room to the

dining room, through the butler's pantry to the kitchen to the

back door. The servants might have been so many cupboards.

George saw no way to explain this spectacle of the master

and his lovely luncheon guest simply flying by, hand in hand.

On the brink of an exit, George reversed them again.

"Gogo," he said. "We'd better not go this way "

"Why don't we use the magic? George, why can't we get

the Genie?"

"Say!" said George. He pulled Kathy another way, into

the hall again, the hall that lay like the hole in a doughnut, at

the center of everything.

Mrs. McGurk was in the library!

"Wait," said George. "Wait, Kathy." He was most reluc-

tant to face the poor woman. He hesitated. He drew Kathy

behind the dining-room door to think.

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This was an error.

Mr. Blair stood over the second maid. "Went out the back

door, did they?"

"No, sir."

"Didn't?" Following a reflex, he chucked her under the

chin. "Where then?"

"That way."

Mr. Blair heaved at his sagging trousers and pursued.

290 Charlotte Armstrong

* * *

The butler peered palely from the pantry.

Mr- Blair rushed into the hail, dug his heel into the carpet to

brake himself, heard breathing in the library, and veered that

way.

Someone was breathing. It was Mrs. McGurk. "Seen them?"

She shook her head. "They're in the house. They haven't left

it." Her woebegone face brightened a little. "How about

giving me a hand?" suggested Mr. Blair. "Otherwise we can

run circles in this squirrel cage for days."

"I want to talk to George," she quavered.

"Good. Fine." Mr. Blair's legs had temporarily given

over to the jurisdiction of his wise old brain. Now he remem-

bered to pick up the Flask and shove it into his pocket. He

said. "You come and stand where you can watch the front

door and UK stairs while 1 go around again."

Mrs- McGurk nodded- But she was full of suspicion. That

was George's flask! She knew it. Had she not polished it with

her own two hands? Who was this odd-looking young man?

And what right had he to put George's property into his

pocket?

When he had gone ahead, through the music room, then

quietly, before she followed, Mrs. McGurk took up the Lamp.

She knew its value. George should not lose it' Not while his

Constance lived! Yes, it was his, and she would defend it!

One day he would thank her devotion for (his!

When George and Kathy eased into the library, it was too

late. The Lamp had gone! George sucked a tooth. His collec-

tion was sure getting scattered, and it wouldn't do. He had a

dreadful sinking feeling, a foreboding. This was just going to

lead to all kinds of trouble. He bundled into the carpet bag all

of the magic objects that remained.

Kathy whimpered. George said, "Honey, this is just aw-

ful! But 1 can't take you outside with those thugs hanging

around." They had reached me hall's elbow again.

"Can't we try upstairs?"

George said, "Upstairs is a dead end, Kathy. You put on

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the Cloak. Slip out. . ."

THREE DAY MAGIC

291

"I want to stay with you."

"But—uh—they might shoot!"

"Then you must wear the Cloak!"

"No, because if they should grab you, I'd

I'd

Kathy pulled herself together. "Why don't 1 just face Mr.

Blair?" Her pretty mouth grew firm. "I've been silly . . .

yes, I've been silly."

"Honey . . ." George ached to protect her. "There must

be a way out of this, if ! had the sense. . . i wish," he

murmured unhappily, "a little bird would tell me how 1 could

get out of here."

"On the Flying Carpet." said the white cockatoo tartly.

"Eh? What's that?" said George.

He was wearing the Ring. He had slipped it on his finger.

long ago. At his words, of course, the stone m the Ring had

become quite clear and shining. George wasn't noticing,

however. He was gazing, astonished, at the cockatoo, and the

cockatoo stared back insolently, as if to say. "You dope!

You shouda thought of that!"

"George!" Kathy was jolted out of her nervous reaction.

"The Ring! Oh, give me that Ring!"

"Wha... ?"

"Quick! 1 can't expl—oh, quick, before you say another

word!"

George gave it to her. "What's the matter?" he said. "By

golly, it's the perfect solution! Come on. Upstairs."

Mr. Blair heard Mrs. McGurk give tongue, but too late.

George and Kathy scrambled out a window to a flat roof. He

spread out the Carpet and they sat down on it.

"Take us to Maine, if you please," said George firmly.

"Deeport, Maine." And then they rose. They fell giggling

into each other's arms. It was so wonderfully absurd and

delightful. Here they were, together. The mad afternoon was

over. They floated, free. The sun was sinking behind a band

of red. . . .

"Well, they're gone," said Mr. Blair.

"Yes." sighed Mrs. McGurk. Her face was calm.

Mr. Blair thought he knew whither the fugitives were

292 Charlotte Armstrong

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flying. He saw no reason to tell this old harridan what he had

guessed.

Mrs. McGurk, for her part, knew exactly what she was

going to do and how she was going to find them. But she

didn't intend to let this wild young man in on her secret.

"I shall go back to town," said he. "I shall just borrow

George's car. May I give you a lift?"

"Oh no, thank you," she said. "I have a car."

They parted. It didn't occur to either to wonder why the

other was so calm.

The rose and the gold withdrew, leaving a thin gray sky.

They huddled together in the very center of the Carpet.

because it was quite small, for two, and steep and empty air

was most vividly near, on ail sides. Their vehicle was rolling

along through chilly space with an undulating flutter that had

been a little trying, at first.

Also. there was nothing between them and me stellar dis-

tances to keep off drafts. Ah, it was bitter up here' Bitter!

Finally, George had hauled the Cloak out of the bag and

wrapped it around them both. This helped a great deal,

although it was rather frightening and bleak to be invisible.

They had to hang on to each other very close to be sure each

was not utterly alone, in the middle of the air.

Irritably, George said he wished he knew who the dickens

had swiped that Lamp.

Kathy said, "Don't wish, George.'*

He stretched a cramped leg very cautiously lest a shoe fall

into New England. "Say. Kathy, why did you make roe take

off the Ring? What happened?"

She explained. George found her freezing hand and felt of

the Ring with a numb thumb. "Kathy, if it is a Wishing

Ring, I can't have used all mine up." He straightened and the

Cloak fell back. "Let me gel you a sandwich!"

"A sandwich! Of all things, George!"

"But you're hungry! You're starving!"

"I'm not starving," said Kathy- "I just fee! as if 1 were

starving. No!" She sat on the hand mat wore the Ring. "You

know," she went on thoughtfully, pulling a corner of the

Cloak up and vanishing, "you and Mr. Blair make the same

THREE DAY MAGIC 293

mistake. You both want to take care of me. You forget I'm

alive . . . and thinking and doing* I have some sense!" She

squirmed indignantly. "Whatever made Mr. Blair think I'd let

you throw my fortune around foolishly? I'd be there, wouldn't I?

If anybody was going to throw it around foolishly, it would

be both of us! You men!" Her body leaned on his. It wasn't

as mad as her voice sounded.

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"Honey, give me the Ring- This darned thing is too darned

drafty and slow ..."

"First you're going to have to think back. One wish you

wasted, I know. That silly bird."

"Bird!" said George feebly.

"You've got a pet phrase. You said . . ." George groaned.

"Oh, George, how many times?"

"Once before, in my room. I remember, now. It was a

sparrow.'*

"Two wishes gone!" wailed Kathy. "And all of mine!

That certainly settles it! No sandwich, and we'll proceed to

Maine the way we're going."

"Honey, please ... I don't like you to be cold . . ."

"I'm thinking of both of us. We just can't afford . . ."

"I know and you're wonderful and I love you but . . ."

Kathy said she loved him, too, and the point of their

dispute got lost, somehow. After a while, Kathy laid her head

snug on his shoulder. The Carpet kept rolling along, and

miserable as they were, it was peaceful in the silent sky.

Suddenly, it wasn't silent. George heaved his shoulder. He

pointed with an invisible hand.

It was an airliner, a silver thing, speeding the way they

were going with a steady roar. It pursued. It caught up. It

passed. The Carpet tossed its invisible passengers, as it bucked

and staggered in the backwash.

Through the little windows they could see where the dim

light bathed the warm upholstered scene. Leaning at his ease

in the deep cushioned seat was a young man with blond hair

(parted in the middle). He'd been dining. Now he was smok-

ing. A pretty hostess bent to remove his tray. Mr. Blair (for it

was he) knocked, as he whisked by in the sky, his lazy ashes

off, and smiled up into the pretty face with a quaint tum-of-

294 Charlotte Armstrong ^

,S,.

the-century wolfishness, the image of which persisted on the ^

gray cold air when he had gone. ^

The Carpet kept lumbering along- ^

The night wore on. Mrs. McGurk took the Mirror, once ;^

more, out of her bag. She was tired and bruised from bounc" ^

ing through the night in Mr. Josefs old rattletrap of a car, ||

which he pushed so recklessly at a speed beyond comfort. At ^

times, she'd been about to ask bun to slow down, but she ^,

hated to tamper with his absorption. ^

"Still east?" he asked. ,^>

"Still east, I judge. They seem to be nearing Narragansett.'*

She and Mr. Josef were, she feared, far, far behind. Mrs.

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McGurk sighed. She was weary and her heart was sore, and

she began to suspect that this was ridiculous. She hardly

knew anymore what she hoped. At first, it was only to see

George, face to face once more, but now her resolution

flagged. She was discouraged. She was . . . and her heart

ached . . . growing old. Oh, she'd known that, all along.

Still, she bad hoped that even her middle-aged heart could

hold the luxury of devotion. A secret spring of joy, it might

have been! Ah, that devil jealousy had undone everything!

She had wept already. In her distress, she'd babbled. She'd

mentioned magic.

But Mr. Josef didn't believe. He thought they were pursu-

ing a helicopter. He didn't even believe in the Mirror. He'd

said scornfully that Mrs. McGurk was guilty of reactionary

thinking. No doubt, he said, it was simple radar. But when

she swore she could lead them to George, he'd been perfectly

willing, even eager, to go on-

The other one, that Gogo, had left them flat. He'd given a

brief total opinion of the whole matter. He'd said, "Nuts!"

Mr. Josef had screamed something after him, something like

"Traitor!" Traitor to what? she wondered sleepily. She thrust

her precious Mirror back into the depths of ther bag, and this

time her fingers stumbled on the Lamp!

For heaven's sake! What a fool she was!

"Mr. Josef," she cried. "Stop, please!"

"At the next gas station, madame." he said patiently.

Mrs. McGurk bit her tongue. She forbore to correct him.

THREE DAY MAGIC 295

. She really could not imagine what the sight of the Genie

might do to Mr. Josef. She decided she had better not rub the

Lamp until she was alone.

A mangy little roadhouse lay just beyond the next bend. It

looked and was a dump. But Mrs. McGurk cried, "Stop

here, Mr. Josef. Maybe," she fluttered, "you would care for

something to drink? I might take a little myself.''

"Ah, perhaps so." They pulled up. Mr. Josefs hand under

her arm, and he looking suspiciously on all sides, they went in.

Behind the bar a hairless man with a roll of fat at the back

of his neck looked up without expression. The stale-smelling

twilight seemed otherwise deserted.

Mrs. McGuric asked the bartender and he told her. There

was the usual anteroom, the powder table. She took the

Lamp out of her bag, pulled herself together, summoned

courage. So, in the lady's room of Joe's Bar and GriU,

Cocktails, French Fries, she met, for the second time, the

Slave of the Lamp. This time Constance McGurk did not

flinch. She waited calmly while he introduced himself with

his formula, until he had asked me conventional question.

"What are your commands?"

"Bring George Hale to me," she said.

"I regret, madame," he replied, "it is not within my

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power."

"What's that?" Mrs. McGurk was outraged.

"Magic cannot cross magic," the Genie told her.

"Is that so! You mean to tell me, just because he is riding

around on that Carpet . . . ?"

The Genie bowed.

"Well!" said Mrs. McGurk in a huff. "A fine thing! Look

here, you can do it if he gets off, can't you?"

The Genie bowed.

"Very well," she snapped. "The minute he does get off

that thing, then bring him to me."

"I hear and obey."

"Wherever I am," she added sharply.

"I hear and obey."

"And never mind that giri. Do you understand? I don't

care - . ." The knob on the door behind was rattling. "That's

all," she said quickly. "Shoo ... go on, now."

296 Charlotte Armstrong

The Genie vanished. A sullen-looking blonde in a fur

jacket was entering this sanctuary. Her black eye flickered on

the big handbag in Constance's hands. Or did it remark her

ruby (relic of Mr. McGurk) solitaire?

The blonde passed on to the inner sanctum. Mrs. McGurk

slipped off her ruby and hid it, too, in her bag, which she

swung by its long strap over her shoulder. It had occurred to

her that she might be among thieves.

Mrs. McGurk was suspicious all over, but she had her own

brand of toughness- She demanded a piece of string from the

bartender, and she tied the strap of her bag to her slip strap

... no silken wisp, this. but a broad band of strong cotton.

She even tied the clasp of the bag with several loops of cord.

Now! To rob her would involve more serious crime. Let them

try it if they dared! '

Now she turned commandingly. She said to Josef, "I want

to go home."

His beard tipped up. "Dear lady," he soothed, "you must

not lose heart.*'

"1 want to go back."

"No, no, we go on!"

"It isn't necessary,'* she snapped.

"Ah," he purred, "1 am afraid, dear lady, you don't quite

understand. We ... Go on!" Mr. Josef, locking eyes with

the bartender, reached out and grasped her hand.

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"Take your hand off me!" said Constance in shrill alarm.

"You see." said Mr. Josef silkily, "you are to lead me to

Hale."

"Lead you!"

"Did you think," Mr. Josef laughed nastily, "I've taken

so many pains with no motive of my own? Ah, come," he

chided. Then he barked. "To the car!"

"Help," said Constance feebly.

"Not in here, Mac." said the bartender. "Outside." He

jerked his chin. He turned his back.

"Help! Murder!" cried Constance. She ran.

"Ah, no, my chickadee," said Josef merrily. As she fell

out the door he caught her by her arms. He forced them back-

With some of the bartender's cord. he was binding her wrists

together. Joe's Bar and Grill remained indifferent. Only me

THREE DAY MAGIC 297

neon fluttered over their heads. In this dead of night/the road

lay bare.

Josef marched her to the car. forced her to the seat. "My

dear woman," he said righteously, "let me assure you, you

are only a means to an end. Function as that means and you

are perfectly safe." He walked around and got in at her side.

"East?" he inquired calmly.

"East,'' quavered Mrs. McGurk. ' 'Oh,'' prayed she,

"George! Oh, George!"

When the sun rose, George at last threw off the protecting

Cloak and peered over the edge. Below was Maine, and all

around was morning, and suddenly George wanted the world

to be as clear and crisp as it looked.

"Kathy, let's dump all this stuff! it's no good!" He held

up the Rose in its box. "We don't want this around, do we?"

"I don't think you ought to dump it," said Kathy thought-

fully. "You just can't tell. It's not the fault of the things,

George." She was sitting with her legs crossed, her brown

eyes serious- "It's Just that the more power you've got in

your hand," mused Kathy, "the more careful you have to be

how your hand turns."

George took out the Purse. "Gold sure ain't what it used to

be."

"But we'll keep it." Kathy put it and the Rose in a deep

pocket of her dress.

"Let's see. Mrs. McGurk must have the Mirror. Mr. Blair's

got the Rask. One of them's got the Lamp. We're sitting on

die dumb Carpet. And you're still wearing the Ring."

"Yes," she said. "I must remember. And here's the Cloak."

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She folded it over her arm, as one might put on her gloves

when the train is entering the station-

"One thing left." George drew out the Sword. The hilt

snuggled into his hand as if the blade were begging to dance.

"I'd kinda like to ... uh ... hang on to this," said George

sheepishly. "But I'm darned tooting going to get rid of this

bag!" He buckled the sword belt around his waist. Then he

lifted the carpet bag and heaved it over into space.

"There!"

He felt better. He lay down on his belly and inspected the

298 Charlotte Armstrong

terrain. He thought he could spot the Congregational spire.

George bet Kathy a dollar his mother would make him shave

on an empty stomach. So they lay, giggling, peering down,

lacking their heels, and the sun was warm on their backs.

They forgot they'd been miserable. They were almost home.

Mr. Blair touched earth long before dawn, hired a car, and

drove himself to Deeport. At the Ocean House, he registered,

unchallenged, as Bennett Blair 2nd. He reserved a suite for

Miss Douglas. He had her luggage put there.

Oh, he was a fox! He chuckled, looking down at George's

suit that he had filched from the vast array in the upstairs

wardrobe at George's fabulous house. All his own suits were

hopeless. He was a fox! He'd thought of this!

Oh, it had been jolly, whipping down the parkways in

George's Cadillac, sneaking into his own house, commanding

Fraulein in an imitation of his own old voice, over the house

phone, to pack for Kathy- Maneuvering the servants out of

the way before he made his dash to the streets again. He was

postponing, he was evading. First and foremost came Kathleen.

The darling giri had run away, and be could not blame her

for that. He had overwhelmed her too suddenly, pouring out

such talk! Well, he could not blame himself for that, either.

That glorious surge of the heart had overwhelmed him. He

did not regret it.

All would be well, yet. Mr. Blair felt absolutely invincible.

He breakfasted in his room, alone. This was his first free

time with a looking glass. He tried to part his blond hair on

the side, but it refused. How old was he? he wondered. A

scar, there, at the hairline. He remembered the occasion of it.

He must be at least twenty-five. A good age' Just the right

age for Kathleen!

Kathleen! Mr. Blair was, actually, in a state of civil war,

his physical youth resisting his foxy old brain, so that he

swayed between dreams of love and the cooler strategy of

conquest.

At last, he realized that even that ancient decrepit Carpet

would be ambling into port soon. So he tore his gaze from the

fascinating face in the glass, borrowed binoculars, drove off

to an unpopulated stretch of beach. He would take up a post.

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THREE DAY MAGIC 299

He would meet the morning Carpet- Mr. Blair chuckled.

What a glorious morning! He frisked on the pebbly strand.

Mr. Blair's wise old mind, bouncing, willy-nilly, while the

rest of him danced, remarked that Wall Street had never been

like this!

The Carpet began to lose altitude. It was coming in for a

landing on a deserted potato field. George peered anxiously

over. He saw a car draw up. The figure of a man got out and

ran, arms waving. **0h, my gosh!" said George in dismay.

"It's Mr. Blair, isn't it?" said Kathy calmly. "Never

mind." George squeezed her hand.

The Carpet came softly, softly down. George stepped off,

turned to hold his hand to his lady, and vanished.

Mr. Blair came bounding up- "Hello, hello.'*

"Helto," said Kathy coolly. The fact that George had

vanished didn't perturb her at once. After all, they had both

been vanishing, off and on, all night long. She was perfectly

accustomed to the idea.

"Have a nice trip?" said Mr. Blair pleasantly.

"Not very," she answered severely. "George . . ." She

missed the feel of his hand, the sense of his near shoulder.

even more. . . . "Shall we go home?"

No answer came.

"Where'd he go?" said Mr. Blair, looking about them.

Bul Kathy began to walk straight ahead of her. She was so

very tired, so very hungry , . . And George - . . why didn't

his arm come around her weary shoulders? Tears stung her

eyes. She lifted her own arm to mop at them with fabric.

The Cloak hung on her arm!

But then . . . ! "Oh!" cried Kathy. "Oh! Oh!" The

Lamp! Now she remembered its lost Mid terrible power!

"I don't understand what's happened to George." said Mr.

Blair, rather angrily, "but if this is the way he takes care of

you . . . !"

"I'm afraid . . . there was something," she said forlornly,

"he had to do."

Mr. Blair's brain beat his body down in a short sharp

struggle, for it knew an opportunity when it saw one. He

became the soul of tender kindness. He would take care of

300 Charlotte Armstrong

her. He brought her to her room at the Ocean House. Ah, the

sweet wann comfort of it, after the vast chill inhumanity of

the sky! He commanded them to bring coffee ... oh, blessed

liquid!

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Thus he comforted her with the civilized arts. Now, she

must bathe and rest, he said, and then-take lunch, perhaps?

Mr. Blah-'s breath grew a trifle gaspy. "Kathleen, won't you

call me Bennett. now?"

He was being so kind. Kathy couldn't be ungracious. She

smiled and said she'd try.

Mr. Blair's wise old mind fought like a maddened hornet

in his skull against his urge to grab her. "Rest well," he

counseled, and withdrew.

Sore and bewildered, Kathy nevertheless bathed and dressed

herself in fresh clothing. What to do? George was gone! And

she could not think how, except by the power of the Lamp.

And who. then, had invoked its power but mat fatuous old

Mrs. McGurk? But what to do? She turned over what magic

she had in stock. The Rose and the Purse? She put them in

the handbag Fraulein had supplied. George was right. These

things were no good. Neither could the Cloak help her. It lay

on the bed. The Carpet?

Oh, heavens' It lay abandoned in the field, and what mad

adventure waited now for some Yankee farmer, she dreaded

to imagine. Oh, George had been so right! This troublesome,

troublesome magic! She wished . . -

Wished! Wished, indeed! Kathy threw herself down to

weep. Here hung the Ring on her finger, and she with no

wishes left!

"Ob, George," wept Kathy, "George . . ."

When the sun rose and people began to appear, Mr. Josef

abandoned the highways. He made the car slink through back

alleys and lanes. It seemed to put one wheel cautiously ahead

of the other, like pussy feet. Even the engine whispered

along.

He had not gagged Mrs. McGurk. The poor woman was

nearly speechless anyhow with misery. She had kept saying,

"East . . . North . - ." at random, and he followed her

directions with a queer blindness.

THREE DAY MAGIC 301

'r"

'••y.

He kept talking He expounded his philosophy, explaining

how, by stealth, treachery, and violence, he would help make

a fairer world. "No more slaves!" cried Mr. Josef, pounding

the steering wheel with his fist- Mrs. McGurk's enslaved ear

heard all this, but her unregenerate mind was going furiously

around the same old circle. How to get free?

The Lamp was here, still tied to her person. What if Mr-

Josef should open her handbag? How could she benefit? If he

should accidentally rob the Lamp and summon the Genie' Of

course, Mr. Josef could not, on principle, acquire a Private

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Slave. No, no, all must be chained alike to the wheel of the

State! Mrs. McGurk wondered to herself if there was an

Amalgamated Brotherhood of Oriental Genii with a closed

shop. She felt hysterical. She fought down the feeling.

They were slinking along a country lane. "North?" asked

Mr. Josef.

"A little east." she answered wearily, as she had been

answering for hours, quite at random.

He stopped the car- There was a glade at their right; an old

crabapple tree stood among wild grasses. On the left a little

wood and the curve of the lane closed them in.

"We have been here before," said Mr. Josef, and he

turned and behind his eyes there burned a reddish anger-

Mrs. McGurk closed her eyes. He'd come out of his state.

He'd noticed they weren't getting anywhere. And what to do

or say now, she did not ... did not... know.

Then, suddenly, George . . . George himself . . . was

mere, standing beside the car, leaning on the sill at her side,

looking reproachfully into her face. "You shouldn't have

done this, Mrs. McGurk," he said, more in sorrow than in

anger.

She screamed. "George! Be careful! He ... gun , . . mad

. . . oh . . . !"

"Huh?" said George-

Mr. Josef got nimbly out on his side and raced around the

hood. A gun was in his hand.

George backed away from the car in confusion and sur-

prise- His feet slipped among the sweet-scented tall grasses of

the glade. His hand went, with an ancient instinct, to the hilt

of the Sword.

302 Charlotte Armstrong

Mr. Josef, gun in hand, charged at him. "Ha!" cried the

spy. "Haha! Haha!" His face went into its most menacing

leer. His beard wagged. "We shall continue," purred Mr.

Josef, "our little chat. I will have the secret of the ray,

please. And now! I'll give you two minutes, 120 seconds, to

explain the process verbally or turn over documents ..."

"Secret! Documents!" cried George. "You dumb bunny!

Listen, I cut up that stuff in my room with this old sword."

"impossible," said Mr. Josef calmly.

George said, "Let me show you! Maybe you'll believe it

when you see it. Maybe you'll stop this idiotic Grade-B

nonsense!" He pulled the Sword half out of the scabbard.

"Nonsense," said the spy thickly. "That's typical of you

stupid Americans!"

Then George really did get mad. "Now, wait a minute," he

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said. "Shut up a minute, you with the beard! Suppose I had a

secret ray? What in hell," cried George, "makes you think

I'd give it to such as you? What makes you think I'd let a mutt

like you, waving a gun around, steal a better weapon? You're

not fit to be trusted with a bow and arrow. 1 wouldn't give you

any secret any time anywhere for any reason . . . you and

your corny threats!" cried George. He drew the Sword out all

the way. "You obsolete old bully! Get out of the way!"

Mr. Josef raised the gun. The rules of his craft did not

permit him to kill dead somebody with a secret. Ideology said

torture. His eyes narrowed, calculating pain.

The Sword leapt in George's hand. It glittered across the

air like a fork of lightning. It cut the gun—and a fingertip—

from Josef's hand.

Blood flowed -

Mr. Josef looked down. He often had thoughts of blood, but

not often was the blood in his thoughts his blood. Mr. Josef

turned very pale. Holding the wounded hand before him. he

tipped, fainting, forward- Fascinated, George watched him

fall . . . against the blade! The wicked blade, still poised in

George's hand!

Mr. Josef expired at once.

George loosened his hand from the hilt of the terrible toy.

It fell on the ground beside the body. His hand was stinging.

It was divorced from the rest of him, by its independent guilt.

THREE DAY MAGIC 303

George sank his face in his hands and groaned aloud.

Mrs. McGurk said, "George, dear George, don't you mind!

You couldn't help it! Untie me," she begged. "Oh. George.

you don't know! When you hear, you won't fed quite so bad

about him. It was self-defense, George. You had to do it."

"Untie you?" said George stupidly. He came to the car.

He worked at her wrists. He would not touch that Sword

again, even for mercy's sake. He cut the cord with a dull

penknife from his pocket.

Mrs. McGurk. in spite of the pain, moved her hands to her

handbag. "Don't worry . . . don't worry . . . you and 1 will

be far far away. See what I have!*' she cried, as to a hurt

baby. (See! See the pretty Lamp!)

But George shook himself. What's done is done, he thought

in some hard sturdy core. Never meant to kill him- Was a

kind of accident and in self-defense; besides. I'm not, proba-

bly, going to prison. He looked down the long vista of his

days, every one of which the memory of this day would mar.

No, he would not go to prison, he thought bleakly.

. Mrs- McGurk cried out, trying to work her fingers, "Open

my bag. George. The Lamp!"

"No," he said. "1 can't do mat." He put his hand on the

bag's tied-up clasp. "This isn't the way, Constance . . . I've

got to go straight through everything, now. Or always be

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sorry. Sorrier, I mean, than 1 am already. We'll have to

notify the police- You'll . . . help me, won't you?"

"I will! I will!" sobbed Mrs. McGurk. "Oh, George, dear

George. I'll tell them how it was. You've saved me!"

A brown animal broke out of the woods, it was a mule- A

stout old woman in a dirty gingham garment, an old woman

with a face like the gray bark of an ancient tree, was holding

a rope attached to the animal.

"How do?" she said "Had a little trouble?"

"Yes, we ... yes . . ."

"Seen it," she said. "Sent a kid up to the main road. He'll

be back wid somebody," she continued. She leaned on the

mule and scratched her tousled gray head with a twig she now

took out of her mouth.

"With somebody? You mean the police?"

"Ay-ah."

304 Charlotte Armstrong

"Oh," said George. "Well, thanks very much."

There was a tableau, minutes of no sound and no motion,

except the mule's gentle cropping at the grass. Then sound

and motion were approaching. George left Mrs. McGurk's

side and went to meet the man in uniform.

"What goes on here?" said the Law. "That a dead man

over there?"

"Oh, officer!" cried Constance. "He was trying to kidnap

me! He had a gun! This young gentleman was forced to ...

do it!"

"He was trying to kidnap you, you say!" said the cop,

focusing on her face. Her nose was violently askew, after ail

she had been through. The cop blinked and looked about him.

"You know me," said the woman with the mule, putting

the twig back into her mouth. ' ^

"Say! Sure. You're the woman who keeps a bunch of pigs

down there in me hollow. You see what happened here?"

"Ay-ah."

"He kill him?" The cop indicated George.

"He killed him, all right. Sliced into him. I seen it."

The cop stepped over the tall grass, looked down, looked

up. "Why'd you do it?" said he suddenly, savagely, to George.

"It was - . . more or less ... an accident . . ." George

was feeling sick.

"Nan," said the woman with the mule, spitting out the

twig.

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"No?" said the cop. "What would say it was, hey?"

"Murder. That's what it was," said the pig woman, not

violently at all. Her dull eyes rested indifferently on George.

About noon, Kathy and Bennett Blair were settled snugly in

the bar, sipping sherry. Kathy was the prisoner of inaction.

Mr. Blair had agreed that, no doubt, George must have been

kidnapped (in a sense that was the word) by Mrs. McGurk.

But, he suggested gently, if George did not now care for the

situation in which he found himself, then, being grown and

responsible, he would make his own efforts to change it. Let,

hinted Mr- Blair, George do it. While they were waiting for

him in this pleasant meantime, he and she might just explore

each other's friendship a little.

THREE DAY MAGIC 305

Ah, he was a fox! Kathy relaxed. There was nothing else

to do. And she was warm and not very hungry any more, and

there was the old beauty of the sea. outside, and she snug

beside a friend who knew her well.

The manager came into the bar. "Say, Frank, I just heard

something over the air. Fellow name of George Hale got

picked up over to Snowden." His voice was low, but at that

name Kathy was clutching the edge of the table.

"Picked up!" said the bartender. "What for?"

"Homicide. That's murder, to you."

"Murder!"

"Coincidence, eh?" chuckled the manager. "1 bet you

Miz Hale's phone is going to be ringing."

"Nah," said the bartender. "Nobody's going to think

that's George! Wouldn't hurt a fly, for gossake. Besides, he's

still down to New York."

"Lots of fools in this world," said the manager cheerfully.

"Seems this fellow ran a man through with a sword."

"Sword, eh? Kinda unusual. 1 wonder if somebody hadn't

oughta tip George off," mused the bartender. "Tell him to

call up his folks and say it ain't him. You think Miz Margaret

is liable to worry any?"

"Miz Liz and Miz Nell won't let her," soothed the man-

ager. "Just the same. I'd certainly like to talk to George. It

could help to talk to George."

"He oughta come back home."

"Frank, nobody knows . . . nobody knows how 1 wish

he'd come back home!" mourned the manager.

"Boys in the band feeling pretty sick. too."

"Going to be a io-ong winter."

"Sweet guy, that George." The bartender's was a senti-

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mental trade. "I dunno what it was about him. . . . Gee.

wouldn't 1 like to see him walk in!"

The manager stifled a sob.

Kathy leaned over. "We have to go there." she whispered

fiercely. "Now!"

"Suppose," said Mr. Blair cautiously, "1 ... er ... see

what I can find out."

"Just let's go," said Kathy and she rose.

Charlotte Armstrong

306

"Kathy. please listen, my dear ..." He caught up to her.

•'You can't go there!"

"But of course 1 can!"

"No. no, dear." His hands were kind but they held her-

mit's a nasty mess. Didn't you hear him say 'homicide'?

George is evidently in jail. You can't go there."

"Why not?" she blazed.

"Because you mustn't be involved. Think of the newpapers!

The whole moronic public licking its lips ... Kathy, con-

sider. George wouldn't warn you to go through ail that. You

are too precious. / don't want . . ."

"What you want," said Kathy coldly, "and even what

George would want, is not the point exactly. / want.' Did you

ever think of that? You don't even consider I'm alive! Also"—

her hair swung in a gleaming we—"you don't mean 'precious.'

You mean delicate and breakable! Well, I'm not breakable!

I'm me! And if / want to be there when George is in

trouble, I am going to be there!

"Oh, no," said Mr. Blair, losing his head.

"Oh, yes." said Kathy, turning her back.

"Oh, no," he cried, seizing her arm.

"Oh, yes," she cried, twisting away.

"Kathy," he blurted. "He isn't worth it!"

"Oh. isn't he?" said Kathy, very, very dangerously.

Mr. Blair groaned, regretting error. He let her run up the

one flight of stairs. He followed. She ran to her room. He

took a stand in the corridor.

He tried lo think what to do or say now. If she insisted,

why. he'd better take her to Snowden, defend her from what

annoyance he could, regain what ground he had just lost, so

foolishly. He wouldn't lose his head again!

Kathy opened her door, wearing her jacket, purse under

her aim. She was so beautiful! Mr. Blair's head went looping

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away from him like a collar button under the dresser.

"Kathy!" he cried in his throbbing tenor- He took a step

as if he would surge on one knee with hands up to plead . , .

She slipped back behind the half-closed door. She picked

the Cloak off the bed-

Had Mr. Blair not been so furiously occupied, retrieving

his head for the second time and jamming it fiercely back in

THREE DAY MAGIC 307

place, he might have noticed certain dainty depressions, dot-

ting alone along the padded floor.

It was a crude little jail, but George was tight in a cell just the

same, the only prisoner at the moment.

Beyond a thick door, he knew there was a kind of ante-

room, and that there, side by side on hard straight chairs,

Mrs. McGurk and the pig woman were waiting. He knew this

because every now and then someone connected with the law

would walk through this corridor. Whenever the end door at

the left swung in, he could see that bare and dusty place, and

the two of them.

George stared at the wall. The cell block smelled dismally

of antiseptics. He felt anesthetized. He would rouse himself

and his thoughts would go spinning around the circle of his

anxieties. Kathy . . . whether Mr. Blair was being a problem

. . . whether to insist that his people be notified ... His

mother and the Aunts, he knew, would march in close forma-

tion, right beside him, heads up, mouths firm, right through

this trouble. Yet, if he could spare them any confusion before

it was clear just what kind of trouble this was going to be,

George fell he must.

Then there were the pig woman and Mrs. McGurk. both

problems, and his legal status at their oddly assorted mercies.

And there were the complications he'd left behind, about the

big house. And other complications ahead. There was Mr.

Blair. So his thoughts went around and came out at the same

place, and meanwhile, there arose about him the carbolic-

flavored. dreary, and somehow official smell of delay.

An attendant of some kind pushed me end door inward.

Mrs. McGurk sailed around his bulk. She cried, "George!"

George rose politely. "What's happening?"

"They're waiting- As soon as somebody or other conies

back, then they'll start asking questions. Oh, George!" Her

strange nose was pink from weeping and wrangling. "Re-

member," she whispered, "remember we can still gel away."

George roused in alarm. "No, no. Don't do that, Con-

stance, please!"

"We can leave all this behind," she breathed. There was a

308 Charlotte Armstrong

light in her eye he groaned to see. "Everything behind us!

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Some desert isle . . . far, far away ..."

George felt the impulse of his hair to stand on end. He

could look right into her dream. He could see the hibiscus in

her hair.

"That would be the worst thing you could possibly do,"

said George in a stem desperate whisper. "No, please. You'd

better give me the Lamp."

"They'd only take it away from you. George, you must

trust me!"

George tried very hard not to look as frightened as he felt-

"1 do," he said. "I know you know I can't spend the rest of

my life a fugitive. I must clear my name. You understand!"

"I suppose so," she sniffled. It was on the tip of George's

tongue to point out that he'd been whisked into that strange

duel. It had been her doing. But he dared not. "Don't you

know," he pleaded, "every time that trick is worked it only

causes trouble?"

"Trouble for you, but oh, George, ft wasn't trouble for

me. It was my salvation!"

Mrs. McGurk had it all twisted around. She'd forgotten

thai Josef had been after George. She saw herself in the

juiciest role, naturally. She was the Heroine. George was, of

course, Her Hero. It was maddening.

George changed the subject. "Could you do anything with

that pig woman?"

"Pig woman!" spat Constance. "I've talked and talked!

She won't listen. We know she's lying. They'll have to

believe us. They'll have to'"

But George thought to himself. No, they won't either have

to. It was a queer thing, but Mrs. McGurk's obvious partisan-

ship was going to make the truth sound like a lie, while the

pig woman's lie, because she told it without heat, was going

to shine forth as a simple impersonal objective statement of

fact.

He shook his head. "There'll be some way to prove the

truth," he soothed, trying to sound serene and confident.

"Don't worry. Don't do anything. Nothing to do but wait till

they ask for our story."

Mrs. McGurk nodded. She straightened her tired back.

THREE DAY MAGIC 309

"We'll tell our story," said she. But George saw right through

to the female squirm of her judgment. "But if they don't

believe it," Mrs. McGurk was saying darkly to herself, "I

shall act! I, Constance, shall save him, in spite of himself!"

George stifled a groan. And as Mrs. McGurk, not entirely

without realizing the drama of it all, let herself be led away.

he beat his head on the bars. Tetl their story, eh? Including

one thing and another? George closed his eyes and winced all

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over.

Kathy's voice said, "Hello."

The end door was swinging shut. He seemed alone. "Kathy,

where are you?"

"George, have you had any food?"

"No," he^aid. "Yes. I mean, no. Kathy!"

"i brought you a couple of sandwiches," said she in

businesslike tones. He felt the package in his hand. As she let

go of it, it became visible.

"Ham! Cheese! Darling!"

"And a thing of coffee." The hot carton came out of the

an".

"Kathy, how . . .?"

"I'll tell you while you cat." He could feel her presence,

just outside his bars. "Golly, George, do you know some-

thing? Being invisible isn't what it's cracked up to be. I'm so

battered. I took a bus and five people nearly sat on me. I was

leaping from seat to seat the whole time. And it's seventy

miles. You see, i didn't have any money, except this old

gold, and it would have just caused a commotion. And Mr.

Blair had the keys to his car in his pocket. George, 1 stole the

food. Is it good? The only advantage when you're invisible is

that you really can steal things quite easily."

George, even among the sandwiches, was a-grin all over.

He felt so much better he could hardly believe it. "Kathy,

this coffee is delicious!"

"Did I sugar it right?"

"Oh, perfectly! Just perfectly!" How dear and close they

were, even in so small a thing! Oh how much cozier was

even trouble when it was built for two! "Kathy," he said,

"we can get through this, somehow, if she only won't . . .

take us apart."

310 Charhae Amfstrong

K-athy said, "I want you to tell me. I'm trying to wait till

you're not so hungry."

Angel! thought George, and washed down a big bite. Then

he told her.

'*0h, dear!" said Kathy at last.

"Honey, was Mr. Blair . . . uh . . - ?"

"Well, not very," she said. But George knew ihe problem

of Mr. Btair was not diminished. "Well." He could feel her

brace up as she spoke. "What can we do? Let's see. George,

I think I'll go and steal the Lamp."

"Say!"

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"That would help, wouldn't it?"

"Boy, would it!"

"All right. That's one thing we can do. Of course, there's

this." He felt the warm metal circle slip into his palm. 'The

Ring! "We're pretty sure you've got one wish left," she

reminded him. "The only trouble is ... George, what should

you wish?"

"Oh. Kathy. I w—"

Her warm hand muffled his mouth. "Sssssh . . . sssssh!

For goodness sakes! This time, we've got to figure it out

carefully."

"I guess that's right.'*

"Don't even speak," warned Kathy, "because ... for

instance, you could wish we had the Lamp, but it would be

silly not to try to steal it first. Because maybe you'll need the

wish to make the pig woman stop lying ... but then . . .

there are so many angles . . ." she wailed. "1 think we'd

better try everything else first and save the Ring for an

emergency."

George wondered, for a moment, what she called an emer-

gency. Then he pressed his lips tight. He agreed. For if, he

thought, Mrs. McGurk were to whisk him off to a desert i&le,

that sure would be the emergency of all time!

Kathy's hand touched his goodbye. "Call the man, so he'll

open the door." George diverted the attendant for a moment

or two. Oh, wonderful Kathy!

Say!

What if he and she ... George and Kathy . . . were to be

magically transported to a flowery isle? There was an idea.

THREE DAY MAGIC 311

George stared at the wall. He knew right away it wasn't any

good. A man can't leave what life is, in the name of life. No,

if they were not to be with their kind, to mix in, to take part,

to struggle humanly in the great complicated mesh that made

the world of men. then what was life for? No ... no good.

The Ring hung heavy on his hand. One magic wish! Just

one! Darned if George could think what it ought to be.

In the anteroom, an unseen Kathy hovered over the ladies in

their chairs. Mrs. McGurk was cross-examining. "Now,"

she said, "when you first caught sight of me car, what was

happening?''

"You was screaming," said the pig woman readily.

"Why was I screaming?"

"Because the fella wid the sword just come outa the woods

at ya."

"No, no, no,*' protested Mrs. McGurk.

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"Fella wid the beard goes running around to get rid of

him."

"Exactly! So it was self-defense."

"Sure it was. Fella wid the beard was defending the both

ofya."

"No," screeched Mrs. McGurk. "Listen . . ." she began

again.

Kathy saw no lamp-shaded bulges in the landlady's print

dress. The Lamp must be in that fat handbag. And it, she

discovered, was tied tight to Mrs. McGurk. No way to steal

the handbag. Kathy touched the clasp with a careful forefin-

ger. Alas, the clasp itself was tied around and around with

cord.

Kathy drew back to think it over. Very well. Attack the

problem another way. Ah, suppose Mrs. McGurk was not so

sentimentally attached to George? Then would she even think

of whisking George and herself away where they couldn't be

found? No, of course she wouldn't! Kathy took the Rose,

invisibly, out of her own purse. It was worth trying, she

thought in excitement. If only she could induce Mrs. McGurk

to sniff the Rose a second time and then let her eye light on

another, not George . . .

On whom? Kathy looked about her. Why, on the fat

312 Charlotte Armstrong

attendant, of course. He would do quite well. Kathy crept

closer on quiet feet.

A great loop of Mrs. McGurk's hairdo had come loose,

and it bobbed and dipped with the vehemence of her continu-

ing arguments. She paid no attention to the Rose, as Kathy

tossed it into her lap.

"My wrists were tied behind my back!" she fumed. "Tied,

mind you! 1 can prove it! Was it George who tied them?"

"I dunno," said the pig woman. "Was it?" Her flesh

sagged all around the inadequate surface of the narrow chair.

Her coarse hands were folded across her stomach. Her bulk

was inert. Mrs. McGurk, in comparison, bounced like a

Ping-Pong ball. Thte Rose bounced in her rayon lap. Just then

the attendant got up and went to the door. off on one of his

mysterious strolls down George's corridor. Kathy reached for

the Rose.

So, yawning, did the pig woman. Her big hand closed. Her

thick fingers were in possession. Now the dainty blossom

(Kathy watched it, helpless with dismay) moved in that coarse

grasp towards the stub of her nose.

"Puny flower," said the pig woman. "Where'd this come

from?" She sniffed. The hulking bosom heaved a sigh.

The attendant was returning!

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He swung the door inward, as it must go, against himself.

The pig woman's little eyes rested, naturally, on the opening

gap. Her gaze passed through it, to where, snug in his cell,

smack in the line of her sight, sat George.

The blob of flesh in the pig woman's chair began to surge.

Somehow, it organized itself roughly into the figure of a

woman. Kathy snatched back the Rose but ...

"Say!" said the pig woman. "How long do they mink

they can keep that kid in this lousy clink, hey?"

"What?" Constance's jaw dropped.

The pig woman heaved to her feet. "You, Fatso, take me

in uiere. I wanna see if he needs anything. Somebody oughta

take care of him."

Constance gasped.

"Lissen, sister," said the pig woman, turning. The air

churned like water under the Queen Elizabeth. "How come

THREE DAY MAGIC 313

'';•

you're so innerested? Old enough to be his grandmaw, ain't

you?"

"Whose grandma?"

"His grandmaw. George's. George ..." repeated the pig

woman with a holy softness. Her weatherbeaten face was

warm . . . nay, sunny . . . with affection. "Nothing bad is

going to happen to a nice kid like him. I'll see to that!"

"You will?"

"Shuddup!" said the pig woman. "You been making a

fool outa yourself long enough."

"Well, I ... * You old fat pig!"

"Rather be fleshy than a scrawny old crow," said the pig

woman ominously. "You let him alone."

"Who?"

"George."

"Oh?"

"Ay-ah."

"Hah!"

The pig woman's big mitt made a feint at the McGurk

puss. The McGurk clawed for the scant and scrambled coif-

fure of the enemy. But the pig woman got a firm grip in

return, and Mrs. McGurk's switch left her.

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By now, the attendant, with loud mate shouts, had inter-

posed himself. Reinforcements poured in from another room.

With huffing and puffing, with yelps from their victim, with

contributing screeches from Mrs. McGurk, at last they dragged

the pig woman away. One of them humanely opened the door

to reassure a frantic George that there had been only a little

bloodshed.

Kathy slipped back to him. "Oh George . . ." she sobbed.

"Oh ... oh ... look!"

The door had become wedged open. They could see Mrs.

McGurk, settling her ruffled feathers. Pale with outrage, she

perched on the edge of her chair. The cops were all busy,

elsewhere, subduing their billowing witness. Mrs. McGurk

was alone- Through the door, George and Kathy, watching

with a horrid fascination, saw the landlady's hands and teeth

begin to work on her handbag. She undid the cord. She dove

into me bag. She took out the Lamp.

314 Charlotte Armstrong

"Kathy . . . Kathy . . ." Their hands clung-

"Wish!"

"But what'll I wish?"

"Call to her ... stop her ... !"

"Constance!"

Bosom heaving, eyes flashing. Mrs. McGurk was in no state

to respond.

She didn't hear. She was lifting the Lamp to ...

There came a sharp rap on the outer door.

It was a reprieve. "1 beg your pardon." said a familiar

tenor. "Oh, I say, it's you, isn't it?"

"How do?" said Mrs. McGurk unenthusiastically.

"My name is Blair," He cleared his throat. "Is Miss

Douglas here, anywhere, do you know?"

"Douglas? Oh, you mean that red-headed girl? No, no, she

is not." Mrs. McGurk was brusque.

"But Hale is here?"

"in there," said Constance, and her eyes blazed.

"Yes, I ... er ... see ..." Mr. Blair swept the cell

block with enough of a glance to see how empty it seemed of

Kathy. He brushed by George with a formal little nod. (George,

who stood with his hands held through the bars in so odd, so

tense a position.) "Ah ... I see you have the Lamp there,"

said Mr. Blair pleasantly.

Her hand tightened.

"Powerful little gadget, isn't it?" He gave her a magnetic

smile and sat down beside her.

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"Y'know, I have an idea."

He had, too. Kathy's hands writhed, if possible, closer to the

hands of George. Their four hands were all bruised on the

Ring . . .

*7 could use that Lamp," drawled Mr. Blair, "whereas

you might have some use for ... this!" He took me Flask

from his pocket. "This," he said, and no salesman ever

spoke with softer lure. "is water from the Fountain of

Youth, ..." The last syllable fell on the sanitary air like the

serpent's whisper in Eden. "You see, Mrs. . . . er . , . ?"

THREE DAY MAGIC 315

"McGurk," she murmured hypnotically.

"I am Bennett Blair, you know."

Her gaze slid on the pink stone bottle. "Thought he was an

older man. . . ."

"He was," came the seductive voice. "I was old. Now, it

appears to me that you . . - are fond of George? Isn't that so?"

"I am," she snuffled. "Oh, Mr. Blair. he is in such

trouble and mat horrible woman, she ... bahoo!"

"My dear lady, there is nothing to worry about. Not now

that I am here."

"You mean you can help?" she quavered. "He killed a

man!"

• "I'm sure he never meant to," soothed Mr. Blair. "Why,

of course I'll help. I would like so much to have that Lamp,"

he continued with a glide of tone that pointed up the connec-

tion. "And you'd rather like to be ... young again?"

"Young?" Pig woman, thought Mrs. McGurk, ha ha!

"George, George, he mustn't have it!"

A series of futile wishes paraded in George's head. Futile

. . . futile . . . inadequate all.

"I can't find Kathleen, you see," Mr. Blair was murmuring.

"1 want so much to find her and ... er ... keep her."

"I see," said Mrs. McGurk, eyes riveted on that Flask.

Redhead, ha ha!

"Wish. George! Wish!"

"But what? Oh Kathy, what will I wish?"

"I'm not so sure," said Mrs. McGurk, suddenly recalling

her best self.

"Now. ! can use this Lamp to take George right out of

this\ But ... er ... the thing I had in mind . . . we'd need

the Lamp there. I won't," she said with stubborn devotion,

"have George doing without well-balanced meals and the

comforts of civilization."

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"Oh, my dear girl!" cried Mr. Blair, reading her dream.

"Don't do that! Pray don't! How much better to clear him of

these charges, simply clear him. And then, both of you so

young ..."

316 Charlotte Armstrong

She raised her tempted swimming eyes to his face. "How

do 1 know you can get him free?"

'^t will be simple. 1 happen to know certain officials of

this state rather well 1 believe I could exert certain pressures

on people in even higher places, if necessary. . . ."

"You're sure, now!" said Mrs. McGurk, lifting the Lamp

in both hands.

"1 am Bennett Blair,*' he laughed, reaching for it.

"But. .. Bennett BIair's an old millionaire. How will ...?*'

"Exactly," said he, very quickly indeed. "Think of it!

Only the day before yesterday, I was an old miHionaire!" He

dazzled her with a smile. "You, too," said Mr. Blair with

the flawless technique of the radio commercial, "can be

young again. ..."

Her mind was paralyzed. Her hands began to loosen,

But so did George's. He pulled them free. Now he knew

what the wish must be!

Out there in me anteroom, the Lamp and the Flask hung in

the air, passing. George spoke aloud in a shaking but solemn

voice.

/ wish." said George, "this was the day before yesterday."

The Ring winked. "But in the morning!" cried George

belatedly. (Oh, was it adequate, after all?) Their hands were

locked again. The Ring blazed in the tangle of their fingers.

"And oh ... don't. . . don't. . ." pleaded George, "don't

let me forget! Not again! Don't let me for—"

Time swirled in a kind of stew. All dissolved.

Thus, it became the day before yesterday.

"If you wish." said the proprietor, "sixteen dollarss and

miss ..."

"What's in it?" said George.

"Ssee?"

"Nuh-uh. What would I want with . . . ? Hey, what's

that?" George spied the hill of the Sword. What a magnifi-

cent old thing! He was attracted. Maybe ... his mind was

reaching for a good reason . . . maybe he ought to consider

mis deal. There might be something valuable in this carpet

bag.

THREE DAY MAGIC 317

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As he touched the hih, something thnlled through to his

hand. This blade in the crimson scabbard was old, very old.

It was evil.

"No, no," murmured George mechanically.

"Maybe iss antique?" said his tempter. George didn't

answer. Evil? The shadows all around him were drawn over

evil unknown. He looked at his hand, where it merely touched

the sword. There was no reason for this shiver, this ghost of

horror.

George took his hand away and rubbed it on his trousers.

He shook his head slightly to dispel this misty fright that was

growing up around him. Silly! Nothing to be afraid of! Just a

lot of old junk. He fished into the bag to see what else it held.

He drew out a little box with a sliding lid- George looked

down at the rose. What was it, anyhow?

"You take?" whispered the old old man.

George stared at him dumbly. Time rustled by, like feath-

ers dragging. There was something wrong. Something was

pricking on his nerves.

But, in George's upbringing, there was no tradition of

nerves. One went ahead and did the right thing, regardless of

how one felt. That was his training, and it stiffened him now.

Maybe this was a chance . . .

He stood, hesitating. It was strange how time hung, as if the

unwinding ribbon of it snagged on a point. As if George were

balanced between two futures. And was it real? Were there two

real futures? Does it matter, when we try? Are we free to

choose? Looking back, we think we see ... we seem to leam.

George thought, Yes, it matters. What we do, how we

choose, where we push, how we aim . . . being men, we

must, to call ourselves alive, believe it matters. Dreaming, he

swayed on the point of decision, teetering there, held in mis

whirling gust of strange unbidden thoughts.

Then the proprietor chose to push at the balance "Thiss,"

he said, shifting closer- "miss rose . . ." His ancient finger

gave it a sly poke. He turned his wrinkled face up and it

broke into a smile George didn't like. "Iss Rose of Luff!"

said the man with hideous glee.

(it was glee for George. George didn't need anybody's

glee. George didn't like it.)

318 Charlotte Armstrong

"You let giriss smell thiss . . . they tuff!"

George closed the box. He fell a littie ill of his distaste.

"No, thanks." said George quietly. "I don't think 1 need

anything of this sort."

He turned and burst back through the heaps of stuff to-

wards the light. He ran out into the street and gulped the fresh

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air- He was shaking a little, as if he'd just almost had an

accident. "Don't need," he heard himself saying. Well,

now, how true that was'

He came to a drugstore; he found the phone booth; he put

in his nickel. His throat all but closed up when be beard her

voice.

She wasn't angry. He could tell.

"Kathy," said George, slowly and clearly, "when you

said you wouldn't wait, what did you mean?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" Her voice was strong and

fresh and glad. "i meant 1 don't want to wait- / want . . ."

"Kathy," cried George, "Darling! Marry me! Right away!"

"! certainly will! I certainly will! That's it! That's what I

meant! Oh, George I'm so glad you c-called ..."

"If Mr- Blair keeps back all your money." groaned George.

"You don't want it. do you?"

"Who? Me!" cried George, horrified.

"Well, I thought not. So. pooh!" She switched in the most

enchanting way. "We'd better run away," she said practi-

cally, "to Maine, 1 think. The cheapest way. We'll take a

bus, George."

"Oh." said George, "dearest Kathy. meet me ... oh,

darling . . . meet me on the comer!"

Mrs. McGurk stood behind her front-room curtains with the

George was off, bag and baggage, and a cute red-headed

trick, besides. Sister? Mrs. McGurk thought, cynically, not.

Bride? Well, if so, she wanted no newiyweds in her house.

Always so much in love . . . never had any leverage on

them.

Now, she thought, take him. This one, coming up the steps

to the stoop. Very prompt with the rent. he was. And serious-

minded. "How do, Mr. Josef," she greeted him pleasantly.

THREE DAY MAGIC 319

He bowed. "Good afternoon. Madame." He fingered his

beard. His eyes slanted to the card. "Someone has left us?"

He implied that he deduced it.

"Hale. Fourth floor."

"Ah," said Mr. Josef. "And the next occupant?" He

watched her face slyly for any hint of a plot.

"I'll tell you one thing about me next occupant," said

Constance cheerfully. "He will have a full month's rent in

advance."

She raised her hand. She put the sign, the symbol of her

power, in the window. That simple, potent, magic word,

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"Vacancy."

Fraulein stood in Mr- Blair's lair, twisting unhappy hands.

"So I pack for her. Mr. Blair. What else can I do? Oh. sir,

do you think . . . once they many . . . that she will want

me?"

He grunted.

"Can she afford me?" asked Fraulein boldly.

Mr. Blair looked up over his glasses. He took them off. He

rubbed the vague persisting ache in his knobby knuckles. "Of

course she can afford you." he said irritably. "I can't keep

the child's fortune from her. I used all the pressure I could

bring to bear," he continued waspishly, "but the young

won't listen, they'll make mistakes." He brooded. "Some-

times," he said to Fraulein's listening face, and knew not

why he said it, "1 shudder to think of the mistakes one

makes, being young." He shook his own (bald) head.

"1 am giad if she is happy," said Fraulein stoutly. "This

George is a good man?"

A thin, reluctant smile approached the old fish mouth. "As

a matter of fact," he admitted, "this George - . . and I have

checked ... is a good man."

"And they love!"

"That, of course, makes everything rosy!" said Mr. Blair

sourly.

But not as sourly as he might have.

Darkness gathered over New England. The chill sky pressed

down.

320 Charlotte Armstrong

Inside, the bus reeked of gasoline, tired people, ok^candy

bars. Gum wrappers and scratchy little gobs of cellophane

grated under shifting feet. There was a baby, of course, and a

man with a rasping snore. Now and then. die bus screamed to

a stop. Clumsy folk blundered in and out, stirring the stale air

with piercing drafts. Again, they would slam on through the

night.

But Kathy was snug in a seat by the window. Her hair was

a pool of gold on George's shoulder. "... know what you'd

call success," she murmured sleepily, "when everybody in

the whole town, probably the whole state of Maine, adores

you. And me, too, besides. . . ."

George filled his soul with the sweet warm scent of her

hair. He wasn't really worried about success right now. For

him, the bus was flying, gossamer-light, through the soft cool

night. It was a dear chariot, carrying all. And all within . . .

the baby fretting pinkly up ahead, the old man, sleeping in

noisy peace across the aisle, the middle-aged wife with the

beautiful worry lines on her mother-face, the work-soiled,

black-nailed, strong man's hand on the back of the next seat,

all, all he knew and loved. All their pale faces in the weak

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light yet were aglow and gilded with something more.

For he loved her, loved them, loved all.

"Why, it's like Magic! thought George. It is Magic! And

he saw the world, and all its knots and problems, transformed,

illuminated, and the pattern changed, by the beautiful blaze

of the magic enchanting his eyes.

The bus winged on.

THE BOTTLE IMP

By Robert Louis Stevenson

There was a man of the island of Hawaii, whom I shall call

Keawe; for the truth is, he still lives, and his name must be

kept secret; but the place of his birth was not far from

Honaunau, where the bones of Keawe the Great lie hidden in

a cave. This man was poor, brave, and active; he could read

and write like a schoolmaster; he was a first-rate mariner

besides, sailed for some time in the island steamers, and

steered a whaleboat on the Kamakua coast. At length it came

in Keawe's mind to have a sight of the great world and

foreign cities, and he shipped on a vessel bound to San

Francisco.

This is a fine town, with a fine harbor, and rich people

uncountable; and, in particular, there is one hill which is

covered with palaces. Upon this hill Keawe was one day

taking a walk, with his pocket full of money, viewing the

great houses upon either hand with pleasure. "What fine

houses there are!" he was thinking, "and how happy must

these people be who dwelt in them, and take no care for the

morrow!" The thought was in his mind when he came abreast

of a house that was smaller than some others, but all finished

and beautified like a toy; the steps of that house shone like

silver, and the borders of the garden bloomed like garlands,

and the windows were bright like diamonds; and Keawe

stopped and wondered at the excellence of all he saw. So

stopping, he was aware of a man that looked forth upon him

through a window, so clear that Keawe could see him as you

see a fish in a pool upon the reef. The man was elderly, with

a bald head and a black beard; and his face was heavy with

321

322 Robert Louis Stevenson

sorrow, and he bitterly sighed. And the truth of it is, that as

Keawe looked in upon the man, and the man looked out upon

Keawe, each envied the other.

All of a sudden the man smiled and nodded, and beckoned

Keawe to enter, and met him at the door of the house.

""nils is a fine house of mine." said the man, and bitterly

sighed. "Would you not care to view the chambers?"

So he led Keawe atl over it. from the cellar lo the roof, and

there was nothing there that was not perfect of its kind, and

Keawe was astonished.

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"Truly," said Keawe, "this is a beautiful house; if I live

in the tike of it, 1 should be laughing all day long. How

comes it, then, that you should be sighing?"

"There is no reason," said the man, "why you should not

have a house in all points similar to this, and finer, (f you

wish- You have some money, I suppose?"

"1 have fifty dollars," said Keawe; "but a house like this

will cost more than fifty dollars."

The man made a computation. "I am sorry you have no

more," said he, "for it may raise you trouble in the future;

but it shall be yours at fifty dollars."

"The house?" asked Keawe.

"No, not the house," replied the man; "but the bottle- For

I must tell you, although I appear to you so rich and fortu-

nate, ail my fortune, and this house itself and its garden,

came out of a bottle not much bigger than a pint- This is it.''

And he opened a lockfast place, and took out a round-

beilied bottle with a long neck; the glass of it was white like

milk, with changing rainbow colors in the grain. Withinside

something obscurely moved, like a shadow and a fire.

"This is the bottle," said the man; and, when Keawe

laughed, "You do not believe me?" he added. "Try; then,

for yourself. See if you can break it."

So Keawe took the bottle up and dashed it on the floor till

he was weary; but it jumped on the floor like a child's ball,

and was not injured.

"This is a strange thing," said Keawe. "For by the touch

of it, as well as by the look, me bottle should be of glass."

"Of glass it is." replied the man, sighing more heavily

than ever, "but the glass of it was tempered in the flames of

THE BOTTLE IMP 323

hell. An imp lives in it, and that is the shadow we behold

there moving; or. so I suppose. If any man buy this bottte the

imp is at his command; all that he desires—love, fame,

money, houses like this house, ay, or a city like this city—all

are his at the word uttered. Napoleon had this bottle, and by

it he grew to be the king of the world; but he sold it at the last

and fell. Captain Cook had this bottle, and by it he found his

way to so many islands; but he too sold it, and was slam upon

Hawaii. For, once it is sold, the power goes and the protec-

tion; and unless a man remain content with what he has. ill

will befall him."

"And yet you talk of selling it yourself?" Keawe said.

"I have all 1 wish, and I am growing elderly," replied the

man. "There is one thing the imp cannot do—he cannot

prolong life; and it would not be fair to conceal from you

there is a drawback to the bottle; for if a man die before he

sells it, he must bum in hell forever."

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"To be sure, that is a drawback and no mistake," cried

Keawe. "1 would not meddle with the thing. 1 can do without

a house, thank God; but there is one thing I could not be

doing with one particle, and that is to be damned."

"Dear me, you must not run away with things," returned

die man. "All you have to do is to use the power of the imp

in moderation, and then sell it to someone else, as I do to

you, and finish your life in comfort."

"Well, I observe two things," said Keawe. "Ail the time

you keep sighing like a maid in love—that is one; and for the

other, you sell this bottle very cheap."

"I have told you already why I sigh," said the man. "It is

because 1 fear my health is breaking up; and, as you said

yourself, to die and go to the devil is a pity for any one. As

for why I sell so cheap, 1 must explain to you there is a

peculiarity about the bottle- Long ago, when the devil brought

it first upon earth, it was extremely expensive, and was sold

first of all to Prester John for many millions of dollars; but it

cannot be sold at at!, unless sold at a loss. If you sell it for as

much as you paid for it. back it conies to you again like a

homing pigeon. It follows that the price has kept falling in

these centuries, and the bottle is now remarkably cheap. 1

bought it myself from one of my great neighbors on this hill,

324 Robert Louis Stevenson

and the price I paid was only ninety dollars. I could sell it for

as high as eighty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cews, but not a

penny dearer, or back the thing must come to me. Now,

about this there are two bothers. First, when you offer a

bottle so singular for eighty-odd dollars, people suppose you

to be jesting. And second—but there is no hurry about that—

and I need not go into it. Only remember it must be coined

money that you sell it for."

"How am 1 to know that this is all true?" asked Keawe.

"Some of it you can try at ooce," replied the man. "Give

me your fifty dollars, take the bottle, and wish your fifty

dollars back into your pocket. If mat does not happen, I

pledge you my honor I will cry off me bargain and restore

your money."

"You are not deceiving me?" said Keawe.

The man bound himself with a great oath.

"Well. 1 will risk that much," said Keawe, "for that can

do no harm," and he paid over his money to the man, and the

man handed him the bottle.

"Imp of the bottle," said Keawe, "1 want my fifty dollars

back." And sure enough, he had scarce said the word before

his pocket was as heavy as ever.

"To be sure this is a wonderful bottle," said Keawe.

"And now good morning to you, my fine fellow, and the

devil go with you for me." said the man.

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"Hold on," said Keawe. "I don't want any more of this

fun. Here, take your bottle back."

"You have bought it for less than 1 paid for it," replied the

man rubbing his hands. "It is yours now; and, for my part, I

am only concerned to see the back of you." And with that he

rang for his Chinese servant, and had Keawe shown out of

the house.

Now, when Keawe was in the street, with the bottle under

his arm, he began to think. "If all is true about this bottle, 1

may have made a losing bargain," thinks he. "But perhaps

the man was only fooling me." The first thing he did was to

count his money; the sum was exact—forty-nine dollars Amer-

ican money, and one Chili piece. "That looks like the truth,"

said Keawe. "Now 1 will try another part."

The streets in that part of the city were as clean as a ship's

THE BOTTLE IMP 325

s'-

decks', and though it was noon, there were no passengers.

Keawe set the bottle in the gutter and walked away. Twice he

looked back, and there was the milky, round-bellied bottle

where he left it- A third time he looked back and turned a

comer, but he had scarce done so, when something knocked

upon his elbow, and behold! it was the long neck sticking up;

and as for me round belly, it was Jammed into the pocket of

his pilot coat.

"And that looks like the truth," said Keawe.

The next thing he did was to buy a corkscrew in a shop,

Mid go apart in a secret place in the fields. And there he tried

to draw the cork, but as often as he put the screw in, out it

came again, and the cork was as whole as ever,

"There is some new sort of cork," said Keawe, and all at

once he began to shake and sweat, for he was afraid of that

bottle.

On his way back to the port side he saw a shop where a

man sold shells and clubs from the wild islands, old heathen

deities, old coined money, pictures from China and japan,

and all manner of things that sailors bring in their sea chests.

And here he had an idea. So he went in and offered the bottle

for a hundred dollars. The man of the shop laughed at him at

first, and offered him five; but, indeed, it was a curious

bottle, such glass was never blown in any human glassworks,

so prettily the colors shone under the milky way, and so

strangely the shadow hovered in the midst; so, after he had

disputed a while after the manner of his kind, the shopman

gave Keawe sixty silver dollars for the thing and set it on a

shelf in the midst of his window.

"Now," said Keawe, "I have sold that for sixty which I

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bought for fifty—or, to say truth, a little less, because one of

my dollars was from Chili. Now 1 shall know the truth upon

another point."

So he went back on board his ship, and when he opened

his chest, there was the bottle, which had come more quickly

man himself. Now Keawe had a male on board whose name

was Lopaka.

"What ails you," said Lopaka, "that you stare in your

chest?"

326 Robert Louis Stevenson

They were alone in the ship's forecastle, and Keawe bound

him to secrecy, and told all.

"This is a very strange affair," said Lopaka; "and I fear

you will be in trouble about this bottle. But there is enfe point

very clear—that you are sure of the trouble, and you had

better have the profit in the bargain. Make up your mind what

you want with it; give die order, and it is done as you desire,

1 wit! buy the bottle myself; for ! have an idea of my own to

get a schooner, and go trading through the islands."

"That is not my idea," said Keawe; "but to have a

beautiful house and garden on the Kona Coast, where I was

born. the sun shining in at the door, flowers in the garden.

glass in the windows, pictures on the walls, and toys and fine

carpets on the tables, for all the world like the house 1 was in

this day—only a story higher, and with balconies all about

like the King's palace; and to live there without care and

make merry with my friends and relatives."

"Well," said Lopaka, "let us carry it back with us to

Hawaii; and if all comes true as you suppose. 1 will buy the

bottle, as 1 said, and ask a schooner."

Upon that they were agreed, and it was not long before the

ship returned to Honolulu, carrying Keawe and Lopaka, and

the bottle. They were scarce come ashore when they met a

friend upon the beach, who began at once to condole with

Keawe.

"1 do not know what 1 am to be condoled about," said

Keawe.

"Is it possible you have not heard," said the friend, "your

uncle—that good old man—is dead, and your cousin—that

beautiful boy—was drowned at sea?"

Keawe was filled with sorrow, and, beginning to weep and

to lament, he forgot about the bottle. But Lopaka was think-

ing to himself, and presently, when Keawe's grief was a little

abated, "I have been thinking," said Lopaka, "had not your

uncle lands in Hawaii, in the district of Kaii?"

"No," said Keawe. "not in Kaii: they are on the mountain

side—a little be-south Kookena."

"These lands will now be yours?" asked Lopaka.

"And so they will," says Keawe, and began again to

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lament for his relatives.

THE BOTTLE IMP 327

"No," said Lopaka, "do not lament at present. I have a

thought in my mind. How if this should be the doing of the

bottle? For here is the place ready for your house."

"If this be so," cried Keawe, "it is a very ill way to serve

me by killing my relatives. But it may be, indeed; for it was

in just such a station that 1 saw the house with my mind's

eye."

"The house, however, is not yet built," said Lopaka.

"No, nor like to be!" said Keawe; "for though my uncle

has some coffee and ava and bananas, it will not be more

than will keep me in comfort; and the rest of that land is the

black lava."

"Let us go to the lawyer," said Lopaka; "I have still this

idea in my mind."

Now, when they came to the lawyer's, it appeared Keawe's

uncle had grown monstrous rich in the last days, and there

was a fund of money.

"And here is the money for the house!" cried Lopaka.

"If you are thinking of a new house," said the lawyer,

"here is the card of a new architect of whom they tell me

great things."

"Better and better!" cried Lopaka. "Here is all made plain

for us. Let us continue to obey orders."

So they went to the architect, and he had drawings of

houses on his table-

"You want something out of the way," said the architect.

"How do you like this?" and he handed a drawing to Keawe.

Now, when Keawe set eyes on the drawing, he cried out

aloud, for it was the picture of his thought exactly drawn.

"I am in for mis house," thought he. "Little as I like the

way it comes to me, I am in for it now, and 1 may as well

take the good along with the evil."

So he told the architect all that he wished, and how he

would have that house furnished, and about the pictures on

the wall and me knickknacks on the tables; and he asked the

man plainly for how much he would undertake the whoie

affair.

The architect put many questions, and took his pen and

made a computation; and when he had done he named the

very sum that Keawe had inherited,

328 Robert Louis Stevenson

Lopaka and Keawe looked at one another and nodded.

"it is quite clear." thought Keawe, "that 1 am to have this

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house, whether or no. It comes from the devil, and I fear I

will get tittle good by that; and of one thing I am sure, I will

make no wishes as long as I have this bottle. But with the

house I am saddled, and I may as well take the good along

with the evil."

So he made his terms with me architect, and they signed a

paper, and Keawe and Lopaka took ship again and sailed to

Australia; for it was concluded between them they should not

interfere at all, but leave the architect and the bottle imp to

build and to adorn the house at their own pleasure.

The voyage was a good voyage, only all the time Keawe

was holding in his breath, for he had sworn he would utter no

more wishes, and take no more favors, from the devil. The

time was up when they got back. The architect told them that

the house was ready, and Keawe and Lopaka took a passage

in the Halt, and went down Kona way to view the house, and

see if all had been done fitly according to the thought that

was in Keawe's mind.

Now, the house stood on the mountain side, visible to

ships. Above, the forest ran up into the clouds of rain; below,

the black lava fell in cliffs, where the kings of old lay buried.

A garden bloomed about the house with every hue of flowers;

and there was an orchard of papaya on the one hand and an

orchard of breadfruit on the other, and right in front, toward

the sea, a ship's master had been rigged up and bore a flag.

As for the house, it was three stones high, with great cham-

bers and broad balconies on each. The windows were of

glass, so excellent that it was as clear as water and as bright

as day. All manner of furniture adorned the chambers. Pic-

tures hung upon the wall in golden frames—pictures of ships,

and men fighting, and of the most beautiful women, and of

singular places; nowhere in the world are there pictures of so

bright a color as those Keawe found hanging in his house. As

for the knickknacks, they were extraordinarily fine; chiming

clocks and musical boxes, little men with nodding heads,

books filled with pictures, weapons of price from all quarters

of the world, and the most elegant puzzles to entertain the

leisure of a solitary man. And as no one would care to live in

THE BOTTLE IMP 329

such chambers, only to walk through and view them, the

balconies were made so broad that a whole town might have

lived upon them in delight; and Keawe knew not which to

prefer, whether the back porch, where you get the land breeze

and looked upon the orchards and the flowers, or the front

balcony, where you coulcT'drink me wind of the sea, and look

down the steep wall of the mountain and see the Hall going

by once a week or so between Hookea and the hills of Pele,

or the schooners piying up the coast for wood and ava and

bananas.

When they had viewed all, Keawe and Lopaka sat on the

porch.

"Well," asked Lopaka, "is it all as you designed?"

"Words cannot utter it," said Keawe. "It is better than I

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dreamed, and I am sick with satisfaction.'*

"There is but one thing to consider," said Lopaka, "all

this may be quite natural, and the bottle imp have nothing

whatever to say to it. If I were to buy the bottle, and got no

schooner after all, I should have put my hand in the fire for

nothing. I gave you my word, I know; but yet I mink you

would not grudge me one more proof."

"I have sworn 1 would take no more favors,*' said Keawe.

"1 have gone already deep enough."

"This is no favor 1 am thinking of," replied Lopaka. "It is

only to see the imp himself. There is nothing to be gained by

mat, and so nothing to be ashamed of, and yet, if I once saw

him, I should be sure of the whole matter. So indulge me so

far, and let me see the imp; and, after that, here is the money

in my hand; and I will buy it."

"There is only one thing I am afraid of," said Keawe.

"The imp may be very ugly to view, and if you once set eyes

upon him you might be very undesirous of the bottle."

"I am a man of my word," said Lopaka. "And here is the

money betwixt us."

"Very well," replied Keawe, "1 have a curiosity myself-

So come, let us have one look at you, Mr. Imp."

Now as soon as that was said, the imp looked out of the

bottle, and in again, swift as a lizard; and there sat Keawe

and Lapaka turned to stone. The night had quite come, before

330 Robert Louis Stevenson

either found a thought to say or voice to say it with; and then

Lopaka pushed the money over and took the bottle.

"I am a man of my word," said he, "and had need to be

so, or I would not touch this bottle with my foot. Well. I

shall get my schooner and a dollar or two for my pocket; and

then I will be rid of this devil as fast as I can. For, to tell you

the plain truth, the look of him has cast me down."

"Lopaka," said Keawe, "do not you think any worse of

me than you can help; I know it is night, and the roads bad,

and the pass by the tombs an ill place to go by so late, but 1

declare since 1 have seen that little face, I cannot eat or sleep

or pray till it is gone from me. 1 will give you a lantern, and a

basket to put the bottle in, and any picture or fine thing in all

my house that takes your fancy; and be gone at once, and go

sleep at Hookena with Nahinu."

"Keawe," said Lopaka, "many a man would take this ill;

above all, when I am doing you a turn so friendly, as to keep

my word and buy the bottle; and for that matter, the night and

me dark, and the way by the tombs, must be all tenfold more

dangerous .to a man with such a sin upon his conscience and

such a bottle under his arm. But for my pan, I am so

extremely terrified myself, ! have not the heart to blame you.

Here I go, then; and I pray God you may be happy in your

house, and I fortunate with my schooner, and both get to

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heaven in the end in spite of the devil and the bottle."

So Lopaka went down the mountain; and Keawe stood in

his front balcony, and listened to the clink of the horses'

shoes, and watched the lantern go shining down the path, and

along the cliff of caves where the old dead are buried; and all

the time he trembled and clasped his hands, and prayed for

his friend, and gave glory to God that he himself was escaped

out of that trouble.

But the next day came very brightly, and that new house of

his was so delightful to behold that he forgot his tenors. One

day followed another, and Keawe dwelt there in perpetual

joy. He had his place on the back porch; it was there he ate

and lived, and read the stories in the Honolulu newspapers;

but when anyone came by they would go in and view me

chambers and the pictures. And the fame of the house went

far and wide; it was called Ka-Hole Nui—the Great House—in

THE BOTTLE IMP 331

all Kona; and sometimes the Bright House, for Keawe kept a

Chinaman, who was all day dusting and furbishing; and the

glass, and-Ae gilt, and the fine stuffs, and the pictures, shone

as bright as the morning. As for Keawe himself, he could not

walk in the chambers without singing, his heart was so

enlarged; and when ships sailed by upon the sea, he would fly

his colors on the mast.

So time went by, until one day Keawe went upon a visit as

far as Kailua to certain of his fnends. There he was well

feasted; and left as soon as he could the next morning, and

rode hard. for he was impatient to behold his beautiful house;

and besides, the night then coming on was the night in which

the dead of old days go abroad in the sides of Kona; and

having already meddled with the devil, he was the more

chary of meeting with the dead, A little beyond Honaunau,

looking far ahead, he was aware of a woman bathing in the

edges of the sea; and she seemed a well-grown girl, but he

thought no more of it. Then he saw her white shift flutter as

she put it on, and then her red holoku; and by the time he

came abreast of her she was done with her toilet, and had

come up from the sea, and stood by the trackside in her red

holoku. and she was all freshened with the bath, and her eyes

shone and were kind. Now Keawe no sooner beheld her man

he drew rein.

"I thought I knew every one in this country," said he.

"How comes it that I do not know you?"

"I am Kokua, daughter of Kiano." said the girl, "and I

have just returned from Oahu. Who are you?"

"1 will tell you who 1 am in a little," said Keawe. dis-

mounting from his horse, "but not now. For I have a thought

in my mind, and if you knew who I was, you might have

heard of me, and would not give me a true answer. But tell

me, first of all, one thing: are you married?"

At this Kokua laughed out aloud. "It is you who ask

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questions," she said. "Are you married yourself?"

"Indeed, Kokua, I am not," replied Keawe, "and never

thought to be until this hour. But here is the plain truth. I

have met you here at the roadside, and I saw your eyes,

which are like the stars, and my heart went to you as swift as

a bird. And so now. if you want none of me. say so, and 1

332 Robert Louis Stevenson

will go cm to my own place; but if you think me no worse

than any other young man, say so, too, and I will turn aside

to your father's for the night, and tomorrow 1 will talk with

the good man."

Kokua said never a word, but she looked at the sea and

laughed.

"Kokua," said Keawe, "if you say nothing, I will take

thai for the good answer, so let us be stepping to your father's

door."

She went on ahead of him, still without speech; only

sometimes she glanced away again, and she kept the strings

of her hat in her mouth.

Now, when they had come to the door, Kiano came out on

his veranda, and cried out and welcomed Keawe by name. At

that the girt looked over, for the fame of the great house had

come to her ears; and. to be sure it was a great temptation.

All that evening they were very merry together; and the girl

was as bold as brass under the eyes of her parents, and made

a mark of Keawe. for she had a quick wit. The next day he

had a word with Kiano, and found the girl alone.

"Kokua," said he, "you made a mark of me all the

evening; and it is still time to bid me go. 1 would not tell you

who I was, because I have so fine a house, and i feared you

would think too much of that house, and too little of me man

that loves you. Now you know all, and if you wish to have

seen the last of me, say so at once."

"No," said Kokua, but this time she did not laugh, nor did

Keawe ask for more.

This was the wooing of Keawe; things had gone quickly;

but so an arrow goes. and the ball of a rifle swifter still, and

yet both may strike the target. Things had gone fast, but they

had gone far also, and the thought of Keawe rang in the

maiden's head; she heard his voice in the breach of the surf

upon the lava, and for this young man that she had seen but

twice she would have left father and mother and her native

islands- As for Keawe himself, his horse flew up the path of

the mountain under the cliff of tombs, and the sound of the

hoofs, and the sound of Keawe singing to himself for plea-

sure, echoed in the caverns of the dead. He came to the

Bright House, and still he was singing. He sat and ate in the

THE BOTTLE IMP 333

broad balcony, and the Chinaman wondered at his master, to

bear how he sang between the mouthfuls. The sun went down

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into the sea, and me night came; and Keawe walked the

bafconies by lamplight, high on the mountains, and the voice

of his singing startled men on ships.

"Here am I now upon my high place," he said to himself.

"Life may be no better; this is me mountain top; and all

shelves about me toward the worse. For the first time I will

light up the chambers, and bathe in my fine bath with the hot

water and the cold, and sleep above in the bed of my bridal

chamber."

So the Chinaman had word, and he must rise from sleep

and light the furnaces; and as he walked below, beside the

boilers, he heard his master singing and rejoicing above him

in the lighted chambers. When the water began to be hot the

Chinaman cried to his master: and Keawe went into the

bathroom; and the Chinaman heard him sing as he filled the

marble basin; and heard him sing, and the singing broken, as

he undressed; until of a sudden, the song ceased. The Chinaman

listened, and listened; he called up the house to Keawe to ask

if all were well, and Keawe answered him "Yes." and bade

him go to bed; but there was no more singing in the Bright

House; and all night long the Chinaman heard his master's

feet go round and round the balconies without repose.

Now, the truth of it was this: as Keawe undressed for his

bath, he spied upon his flesh a patch like a patch of lichen on

a rock, and it was then that he stopped singing. For he knew

the likeness of that patch, and knew that he was fallen in the

Chinese Evil.*

Now, it is a sad thing for any-man to fall into this sickness.

And rt would be a sad thing for anyone to leave a house so

beautiful and so commodious, and depart from all his friends

to the north coast of Molokai. between the mighty cliff and

me sea-breakers. But what was that to the case of the man

Keawe, he had met his love but yesterday and won her but

that morning, and now saw all his hopes break, in a moment.

like a piece of glass?

A while he sat upon the edge of the bath, then sprang, with

*Leprosy-

334 Robert Louis Stevenson

a cry, and ran outside; and to and fro, to and fro, along the

balcony, like one despairing.

"Very willingly could I leave Hawaii, die home of my

fathers," Keawe was thinking. "Very lightly could I leave

my house, the high-placed, the many-windowed, here upon

the mountains. Very bravely could 1 go to Molokai, to

Kataupapa by the cliffs, to live with the smitten and to sleep

there, far from my fathers. But what wrong have I done, what

sin lies upon my sout, that I should have encountered Kokua

coming cool from the sea-water in the evening? Kokua, the

soul ensnarer! Kokua. the light of my life! Her may I never

wed, her may 1 look upon no longer, her may I no more

handle with my loving hand; and it is for this. it is for you. 0

Kokua! that I pour my lamentations!"

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Now you are to observe what sort of a man Keawe was, for

he might have dwelt there in the Bright House for years, and

no one been the wiser of his sickness; but he reckoned

nothing of that, if he must lose Kokua, And again he might

have wed Kokua even as he was; and so many would have

done, because they have the souls of pigs; but Keawe loved

the maid manfully, and he would do her no hurt and bring her

in no danger.

A little beyond the midst of the night, there came in his

mind the recollection of that bottle. He went round to the

back porch, and called to memory the day when the devil had

looked forth; and at the thought ice ran in his veins.

"A dreadful thing is in the bottle," thought Keawe, "and

dreadful is the imp, and it is a dreadful thing to risk the

flames of hell. But what other hope have 1 to cure my

sickness or to wed Kokua? What!" he thought, "would I

beard the devil once, only to get me a house, and not face

him again to win Kokua?"

Thereupon he called to mind it was the next day the Hail

went by on her return to Honolulu. "There must I go first,"

he thought, "and see Lopaka. For the best hope that 1 have

now is to find that same bottle 1 was so pleased to be rid of."

Never a wink could he sleep; the food stuck in his throat;

but he sent a letter to Kiano, and about the time when the

steamer would be coming, rode down beside the cliff of the

tombs. It rained; his horse went heavily; he looked up at the

THE BOTTLE IMP

335

,- black mouths of the caves, and he envied the dead that slept

;i there and were done with trouble; and called to mind how he

[:„ had galloped by the day before, and was astonished. So he

^ 'came down to Hookena. and there was all the country gath-

IE ' ered for the steamer as usual. In the shed before the store they

^ sat and jested and passed the news; but there was no matter of

H speech in Keawe's bosom, and he sat in their midst and

|| looked without on the rain failing on the houses, and the

t surf beating among the rocks, and the sighs arose in his

throat.

"Keawe of the Bright House is out of spirits," said one to

another. Indeed, and so he was, and little wonder.

Then the Hall came, and the whaleboat carried him on

board. The afterpart of the ship was full of Haoles*—who

had been to visit the volcano, as their custom is; and the

midst was crowded with Kanakas, and the forepart with wild

bulls from Hilo and horses from Kau; but Keawe sat apart

from all in his sorrow, and watched for the house of Kiano.

There it sat low upon the shore in the black rocks, and shaded

by the cocoa palms, and there by the door was a red holoku,

no greater than a fly. and going to and fro with a fly's

busyness. 'Ah, queen of my heart," he cried, "I'll venture

my dear soul to win you!"

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Soon after darkness fell and the cabins were lit up, and the

Haotes sat and played at the cards and drank whisky as their

custom is; but Keawe walked the deck all night; and all the

next day. as they steamed under the lee of Maui or of

Molokai. he was stilt pacing to and fro like a wild animal in a

menagerie.

' Toward evening they passed Diamond Head, and came to

the pier of Honolulu. Keawe stepped out among the crowd.

and began to ask for Lopaka. It seemed he had become the

owner of a schooner—none better in the islands—and was

gone upon an adventure as far as Pola-Pola or Kahiki; so

there was no help to be looked for from Lopaka. Keawe

called to mind a friend of his, a lawyer in the town (1 must

not tell Ins name), and inquired of him. They said he was

grown suddenly rich. and had a fine new house upon Waikiki

*whites.

336 Robert Louis Stevenson

shore; and this put a thought in Keawe's head, and he called a

hack and drove to the lawyer's house.

The house was all brand new, and the trees in the garden

no greater than walking sticks, and the lawyer, when he

came, had the air of a man well pleased.

"What can I do to serve you?" said the lawyer.

"You are a friend of Lopaka's." replied Keawe, "and

Lopaka purchased from me a certain piece of goods that I

thought you might enable me to trace."

The lawyer's face became very dark. **1 do not profess to

misunderstand you, Mr. Keawe," said he, "though this is an

ugly business to be stirring in. You may be sure I know

nothing, but yet I have a guess, and if you would apply in a

certain quarter I think you might have news."

And he named the name of a man, which, again, I had

better not repeat. So it was for days, and Keawe went from

one to another, finding everywhere new clothes and car-

riages, and fine new houses, and men everywhere in great

contentment, although, to be sure, when he hinted at his

business their faces would cloud over.

"No doubt I am upon the track," thought Keawe. "These

new clothes and carriages are alt the gifts of the little imp,

and these glad faces are the faces of men who have taken

their profit and got rid of the accursed thing in safety. When I

see pale cheeks and hear sighing, I shall know that I am near

the bottle."

So it befell at last he was recommended to a Haole in

Beritania Street. When he came to the door, about the hour of

the evening meal, there were the usual marks of the new

house, and the young garden, and the electric light shining in

the windows; but when the owner came, a shock of hope and

fear ran through Keawe; for here was a young man, white as

a corpse, and black about die eyes, the hair shedding from his

head, and such a look in his countenance as a man may have

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when he is waiting for the gallows.

"Here it is, to be sure," thought Keawe, and so with this

man he noways veiled his errand. "I am come to buy the

bottle," said he,

At the word, the young Haole of Beritania Street reeled

against the wall.

THE BOTTLE IMP 337

"The bottle!" he gasped. "To buy the bottle!" Then he

seemed to choke, and seizing Keawe by the arm, carried him

into a room and poured out wine in two glasses.

""Here is my respects," said Keawe. who had been much

about with Haoles in his time. "Yes," he added, ^'1 am come

to buy the bottle. What is the price by now?"

At mat word the young man let his glass slip through his

fingers, and looked upon Keawe like a ghost.

"The price," says he; "the price! You do not know the

price?'1

"It is for that 1 am asking you," returned Keawe. "But

why are you so much concerned? Is there anything wrong

about the price?"

"It has dropped a great deal in value since your time, Mr.

Keawe," said the young man, stammering.

"Well, well, 1 shall have the less to pay for it," said

Keawe. "How much did it cost you?"

The young man was as white as a sheet.

"Two cents," said he.

"What!" cried Keawe, "two cents? Why, then, you can

only sell it for one. And he who buys it—" The words died

upon Keawe's tongue; he who bought it could never sell it

again, the bottle and the bottle imp must abide with him until

he died, and when he died must carry him to the red end of

hell.

The young man of Beritania Street fell upon his knees.

"For God's sake, buy it!" he cried. "You can have all my

fortune in me bargain. I was mad when I bought it at that

price. 1 had embezzled money at my store; I was lost else; I

must have gone to jail."

"Poor creatore," said Keawe, "you would risk your soul

upon so desperate an adventure, and to avoid the proper

punishment of your own disgrace; and you think I could

hesitate with love in front of me. Give me the bottle, and the

change which I make sure you have all ready. Here is a

five-cent piece."

It was as Keawe supposed; the young man had the change

ready in a drawer; the bottle changed hands, and Keawe's

fingers were no sooner clasped upon the stalk than he had

breathed his wish to be a clean man. And sure enough, when

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Robert Louis Stevenson

338

he got home to his room, and stripped himself before a glass,

his flesh was whole like an infant's. And here was the strange

thing: he had no sooner seen this miracle than his mind was

changed within him. and he cared naught for the Chinese

Evil, and little enough for Kokua; and had but the one

thought, that here he was bound to the bottle imp for time and

for eternity, and had no better hope but to be a cinder for ever

in the flames of hell. Away ahead of him he saw them blaze

with his mind's eye, and his soul shrank, and darkness fell

upon the light.

When Keawe came to himself a little, he was aware it was

the night when the band played at the hotel. Thither he went,

because he feared to be alone; and there, among happy faces.

walked to and fro, and heard the tunes go up and down, and

saw Berger beat the measure, and all the while he heard the

flames crackle and saw the red fire burning in the bottomless

pit. Of a sudden the band played Hiki-cio-ao; that was a song

uiat he had sung with Kokua, and at the strain courage

returned to him.

"It is done now," he thought, "and once more let me take

the good along with the evil."

So it befell that he relumed to Hawaii by the first steamer,

and as soon as it could be managed he was wedded to Kokua,

and carried her up the mountain side to the Bright House.

Now it was so with these two, that when they were to-

gether Keawe's heart was stilled; but as soon as he was alone

he fell into a brooding horror, and heard the flames crackle,

and saw the red fire bum in the bottomless pit. The girl,

indeed, had come to him wholly; her heart leaped in her side

at sight of him, her hand clung to his; and she was so

fashioned, from the hair upon her head to the nails upon her

toes, that none could see her without joy. She was pleasant in

her nature. She had the good word always. Full of song she

was, and went to and fro in the Bright House, the brightest

thing in its three stories, carolling like the birds. And Keawe

beheld and heard her with delight, and then must shrink upon

one side, and weep and groan to think upon the price that he

had paid for her; and then he must dry his eyes, and wash his

face, and go and sit with her on the broad balconies, joining

in her songs, and, with a sick spirit, answering her smiles.

THE BOTTLE IMP 339

There came a day when her feet began to be heavy and her

songs more rare; and now it was not Keawe only that would

weep apart, but each would sunder from the other and sit in

opposite balconies with the whole width of the Bright House

betwixt. Keawe was so sunk in his despair, he scarce ob-

served the change, and was only glad he had more hours to

sit alone and brood upon his destiny, and was not so fre-

quently condemned to pull a smiling face on a sick heart. But

one day, coming softly through the house, he heard the sound

of a child sobbing, and there was Kokua rolling her face upon

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the balcony floor, and weeping like the lost.

"You do well to weep in this house, Kokua," he said.

"And yet I would give the head off my body that you (at

least) might have been happy."

"Happy!" she cried. "Keawe, when you lived alone in

your Bright House you were the word of the island for a

happy man; laughter and song were in your mouth, and your

face was as bright as the sunrise. Then you wedded poor

Kokua; and the good God knows what is amiss in her—but

from that day you have not smiled. Oh!" she cried, "what

ails me? I thought I was pretty, and I knew 1 loved him. What

ails me, that I throw this cloud upon my husband?"

"Poor Kokua," said Keawe- He sat down by her side, and

sought to take her hand; but that she plucked away. "Poor

Kokua," he said again. "My poor child—my pretty. And I

had thought all this while to spare you! Well, you shall know

all. Then, at least, you will pity poor Keawe; then you will

understand how much he loved you in the past—that he dared

hell for your possession—and how much he loves you still

(the poor condemned one), that he can yet call up a smile

lyhen he beholds you."

With that he told her all, even from the beginning.

. "You have done this for me?" she cried. "Ah, well, then

what do 1 care!" and she clasped and wept upon him.

"Ah. child!" said Keawe, "and yet, when I consider of

' e fire of hell, 1 care a good deal!"

^'Never tell me," said she, "no man can be lost because

loved Kokua. and no other fault. I tell you, Keawe. I shall

you with these hands, or perish in your company. What!

Robert Louis Stevenson

340

you loved me and gave your soul, and you think i will not die

to save you in return?"

"Ah, my dear, you might die a hundred times: and what

difference would that make?" he cried, "except to leave me

lonely till the time comes for my damnation?"

"You know nothing," said she. "I was educated in a

school in Honolulu; I am no common girl. And I tell you I

shall save my lover. What is this you say about a cent? But

all the world is not American. In England they have a piece

they call a fanning, which is about half a cent. Ah' sorrow!"

she cried, "that makes it scarcely better, for the buyer must

be lost, and we shall find none so brave as my Keawe! But,

then, there is France; they have a small coin there which they

call a centime, and these go five to the cent, or thereabout.

We could not do better. Come, Keawe, let us go to the

French islands; let us go to Tahiti as fast as ships can bear us.

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There we have four centimes, three centimes, two centimes,

one centime; four possible sales to come and go on; and two

of us to push the bargain. Come, my Keawe! kiss me, and

banish care. Kokoa will defend you."

"Gift of God!" he cried. "I cannot think that God will

punish me for desiring aught so good. Be it as you will then,

take me where you please; 1 put my life and my salvation in

your hands."

Early the next day Kokua went about her preparations. She

took Keawe's chest that he went with sailoring; and first she

put the bottle in a comer, and then packed it with the richest

of their clothes and the bravest of the knick-knacks in the

house. "For," said she, "we must seem to be rich folks, or

who would believe in the bottle?" All the time of" her prepa-

ration she was as gay as a bird; only when she looked upon

Keawe the tears would spring in her eye, and she must run

and kiss him. As for Keawe, a weight was off his soul; now

that he had his secret shared, and some hope in front of him,

he seemed like a new man, his feet went lightly on the earth,

and his breath was good to him again. Yet was terror still at

his elbow; and ever and again, as the wind blows out a taper,

hope died in him, and he saw the flames toss and the red fire

bum inliell.

It was given out in the country they were gone pleasuring

THE BOTTLE IMP 341

in the States, which was thought a strange thing, and yet not

so strange as the truth, if any could have guessed it. So they

went to Honolulu in the Halt, and thence in the Umcttilla to

San Francisco with a crowd of Haoles, and at San Francisco

took their passage by the mail brigantine, the Tropic Bird, for

Papeete, the chief place of the French in the south islands.

Thither they came, after a pleasant voyage, on a fair day of

the Trade Wind, and saw the reef with the surf breaking and

Motuiti with its palms, and the schooner riding withinside

and me white houses of the town low down along the shore

among green trees, and overhead the mountains and the

clouds of Tahiti, the wise island.

It was judged the most wise to hire a house, which they did

accordingly, opposite the British Consul's, to make a great

parade of money, and themselves conspicuous with carriages

and horses. This it was very easy to do, so long as they had

the bottle in their possession; for Kokua was more bold than

Keawe, and, whenever she had a mind, called on the imp for

twenty or a hundred dollars. At this rate they soon grew to be

remarked in the town; and the strangers from Hawaii, their

tiding and their driving, the fine holokus, and the rich lace of

Kokua, became the matter of much talk.

They got on well after the first with the Tahiti language,

which is indeed like to the Hawaiian, with a change of certain

letters; and as soon as they had any freedom of speech, began

to push the bottle. You are to consider it was not an easy

subject to introduce; it was not easy to persuade people you

are in earnest, when you offer to sell them for four centimes

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(he spring of health and riches inexhaustible. It was necessary

•besides to explain the dangers of the bottle; and either people

-liiatoelieved the whole thing and laughed, or they thought the

^'"'Ittiore of the darker part, became overcast with gravity, and

^i^iNHrew away from Keawe and Kokua, as from persons who had

,^^^leatings with the devil. So far from gaining ground, these

' ^"^0 began to find they were avoided in the town; the children

ay from them screaming, a thing intolerable to Kokua;

ics crossed themselves as they went by; and all persons

with one accord to disengage themselves from their

ssion fell upon their spirits. They would sit at night

342

Robert Louis Stevenson

THE BOTTLE IMP

343

in their new house, after a day's weariness, and not exchange

one word, or the silence would be broken by Kokua bursting

suddenly into sobs. Sometimes they would pray together;

sometimes they would have the bottle out upon the floor, and

sit all evening watching how the shadow hovered HI the

midst. At such times they would be afraid to go to rest. It was

long ere slumber came to them, and. if either dozed off, it

would be to wake and find the other silently weeping in the

dark, or, perhaps, to wake alone, the other having fled from

the house and the neighborhood of that bottle, to pace under

the bananas in me little garden, or to wander on the beach by

moonlight.

One night it was so when Kokua awoke. Keawe was gone.

She felt in the bed and his place was cold. Then fear fell upon

her, and she sal up in bed. A tittle moonshine filtered through

the shutters. The room was bright, and she could spy the

bottle on the floor. Outside it blew high, the great trees of the

avenue cned aloud, and the fallen leaves rattled in the ve-

randa. In the nudst of this Kokua was aware of another

sound; whether of a beast or of a man she could scarce tell.

but it was as sad as death, and cut her to the soul. Softly she

arose, set the door ajar, and looked forth into the moonlit

yard. There, under the bananas, lay Keawe, his mouth in the

dust, and as he lay he moaned.

It was Kokua's first thought to run forward and console

him; her second potently withheld her. Keawe had borne

himself before his wife like a brave man; it became her little

in the hour of weakness to intrude upon his shame. With the

thought she drew back into the house.

"Heaven," she thought, "how careless have I been—how

weak! It is he. not 1, that stands in mis eternal peril; it was

he, not I, that took the curse upon his soul. It is for my sake,

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and for the love of a creature of so little worth and such poor

help, that he now beholds so close to him the flames of

hell—ay, and smells the smoke of it, lying without there in

the wind and moonlight. Am 1 so dull of spirit that never till

now I have surmised my duty, or have I seen it before and

turned aside? But now, at least. 1 take up my soul in both the

hands of my affection; now I say farewell to the white steps

of heaven and the waiting faces of my friends. A love for a

love, and let mine be equalled with Keawe's! A soul for a

soul, and be it mine to perish!"

She was a deft woman with her hands, and was soon

apparelled. She took in her hand the change—the precious

centimes they kept ever at their side; for this coin is little

used, and they had made provision at a government office.

When she was forth in the avenue clouds came on the wind.and

the moon was blackened. The town slept, and she knew not

whither to turn till she heard one coughing in the shadow of

the trees.

"Old man," said Kokua, "what do you here abroad in the

cold night?"

The old man could scarce express himself for coughing,

but she made out that he was old and poor. and a stranger in

the island.

"Will you do me a service?" said Kokua. "As one stranger

to another, and as an old man to a young woman, will you

help a daughter of Hawaii?"

"Ah," said the old man. "So you are me witch from the

Eight Islands, and even my old soul you seek to entangle. But

I have heard of you, and defy your wickedness."

"Sit down here," said Kokua, "and let me tell you a

tale." And she told him the story of Keawe from the begin-

ning to the end.

"And now," said she, "1 am his wife, whom he bought

with his soul's welfare. And what should I do? If 1 went to

him myself and offered to buy it, he will refuse. But if you

go, he will sell it eagerly; I will await you here; you will buy

it for four centimes, and I will buy it again for three. And the

Lord -strengthen a poor girl!"

"If you meant falsely." said the old man, "I think God

would strike you dead."

"He would!" cried Kokua. "Be sure He would- I could

not be so treacherous; God would not suffer it."

"Give me the four centimes and await me here," said the

old man.

Now, when Kokua stood alone in the street, her spirit died.

The wind roared in the trees, and it seemed to her the rushing

••^f the flames of hell; the shadows towered in the light of the

.street lamp. and they seemed to her the snatching hands of

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344 Robert Louis Stevenson

evil ones. If she had had the strength, she must have run

away, and if she had had the breath, she must have screamed

aloud; but, in tnith, she could do neither, and stood and

trembled in the avenue, like an affrighted child.

Then she saw the old man returning, and he had the bottle

in his hand.

"I have done your bidding," said he. "I left your husband

weeping like a child; tonight he will sleep easy." And he

held the bottle forth.

"Before you give it to me." Kokua panted, "take the good

with the evil—ask to be delivered from your cough."

"I am an old man," replied the other, "and too near the

gate of the grave to take a favor from the devil. But what is

this? Why do you not take the bottle? Do you hesitate?"

"Not hesitate!" cried Kokua. "I am only weak. Give me a

moment. It is my hand resists, my flesh shrinks back from the

accursed thing. One moment only!"

The old man looked upon Kokua kindly. "Poor child!"

said he, "you fear: your soul misgives you. Well, let me

keep it. 1 am old. and can never more be happy in this world,

and as for the next—"

"Give it me!" gasped Kokua. "There is your money. Do

you think I am so base as that? Give me the bottle."

"God bless you, child," said the old man.

Kokua concealed the bottle under her holoku, said farewell

to the old man, and walked off along the avenue, she cared

not whither. For all roads were now me same to her, and led

equally to hell. Sometimes she walked, and sometimes ran;

sometimes lay by the wayside in the dust and wept. All that

she had heard of hell came back to her, she saw the flames

blaze, and she smeiled the smoke, and her flesh withered on

the coals.

Near day she came to her mind again, and returned to -the

house. It was even as the old man said—Keawe slumbered

fake a child. Kokua stood and gazed upon his face.

"Now my husband," said she, "it is your turn to steep.

When you wake it will be your turn to sing and laugh. But for

poor Kokua, alas! that meant no evil—for poor Kokua no

more steep, no more singing, no more delight, whether in

earth or heaven."

THE BOTTLE iMP 345

With that she lay down in the bed by his side, and her

misery was so extreme that she fell in a deep shunber instantly.

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Late in me morning her husband woke her and gave her the

good news. It seemed he was silly with delight, for he paid

no heed to her distress, ill though she dissembled it. The

words stuck in her mouth, it mattered not; Keawe did the

speaking. She ate not a bite, but who was to observe it? For

Keawe cleared the dish. Kokua saw and heard him, like some

strange thing in a dream; there were times when she forgot or

doubted, and put her hands to her brow; to know herself

doomed and hear her husband babble seemed so monstrous.

All the while Keawe was eating and talking, and planning

the time of their return, and thanking her for saving him and

fondling her. and calling her the true helper after a!l. He

laughed at the old man that was fool enough to buy that

bottle.

"A worthy man he seemed," Keawe said. "But no one

can judge by appearances. For why did the old reprobate

require the bottle?"

"My husband," said Kokua humbly, "his purpose may

have been good.' *

Keawe laughed like an angry man.

"Fiddle-de-dee!" cned Keawe. "An old rogue, I tell you;

and an old ass to boot. For the bottle was hard enough to sell

at four centimes; and at three it will be quite impossible. The

margin is not broad enough, the thing begins to smell of

scorching—brr!" said he, and shuddered. "It is true 1 bought

it myself at a cent, when I knew not there were smaller coins.

I was a fool for my pains; there will never be found another,

and whoever has that bottle now will carry it to the pit.''

"0 my husband!" said Kokua. "Is it not a terrible thing to

save oneself by the eternal ruin of another? It seems to me 1

could not laugh. I would be humbled. I would be filled with

melancholy. I would pray for the poor holder."

Then Keawe, because he felt the truth of what she said,

grew the more angry. "Heighty-(eighty!" cried he. "You

may be filled with melancholy if you please. It is not the

mind of a good wife. If you thought at all of me, you would

sit shamed."

Thereupon he went out, and Kokua was alone.

Robert Louis Stevenson

346

What chance had she to sell that bottle at two centimes?

None, she perceived. And if she had any, here was her

husband hurrying her away to a country where there was

nothing lower than a cent. And here—on the morrow of her

sacrifice—was her husband leaving her and blaming her.

She would not even try to profit by what time she had, but

sat in Ae house, and now had the bottle out and viewed it

with unutterable fear, and now, with loathing, hid it out of

sight.

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By-and-by Keawe came back, and would have her take a

drive.

"My husband, I am ill," she said. "1 am out of heart.

Excuse me, 1 can take no pleasure.'*

Then was Keawe more wroth than ever. With her, because

he thought she was brooding over the case of the old man;

and with himself, because he thought she was right and was

ashamed to be so happy.

"This is your truth." cned he, "and this your affection!

Your husband is just saved from eternal ruin, which he

encountered for me love of you—and you can take no plea-

sure* Kokua, you have a disloyal heart."

He went forth again furious, and wandered in the town all

day. He met friends, and drank with them; they hired a

carriage and drove into the country, and there drank again.

All the time Keawe was ill at ease, because he was taking this

pastime while his wife was sad, and because he knew in his

heart that she was more right than he; and the knowledge

made him drink the deeper.

Now there was an old brutal Haole drinking with him, one

that had been a boatswain of a whaler—a runaway, a digger

in gold mines, a convict in prisons. He had a low mind and a

foul mouth; he loved to drink and to see others dninken; and

he pressed the glass upon Keawe. Soon there was no more

money in the company.

"Here, you!" says the boatswain, "you are rich, you have

been always saying. You have a bottle or some foolishness."

"Yes," says Keawe, "I am rich, I will go back and get

some money from my wife, who keeps it."

"That's a bad idea. mate," said the boatswain. "Never

THE BOTTLE IMP 347

you trest a petticoat with dollars. They're all as false as

water; you keep an eye on her."

Now this word struck in Keawe's mind; for he was mud-

dled with what he had been drinking.

"I should not wonder but she was false, indeed," thought

he. "Why else should she be so cast down at my release? But

1 will show her 1 am not the man to be fooled. 1 will catch her

in the act."

Accordingly, when they were back in town, Keawe bade

the boatswain wait for him at the comer by the old calaboose,

and went forward up the avenue alone to me door of his

house. The night had come again: there was a light within,

but never a sound; and Keawe crept about the comer, opened

me back door softly, and looked in.

There was Kokua on the floor, the lamp at her side; before

her was a milk-white bottle, with a round belly and a long

neck; and as she viewed it, Kokua wrung her hands.

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A long time Keawe stood and looked in the doorway. At

first he was struck stupid; and then fear fell upon him mat the

bargain had been made amiss, and the bottle had come back

to him as tt came at San Francisco; and at that his knees were

loosened, and the fumes of the wine departed from his head

like mists off a river in the morning- And then he had another

thought; and it was a strange one, that made his cheeks to

bum.

"! must make sure of this," thought he,

So he closed the door. and went softly around the comer

again, and then came noisily in, as though he were but now

returned. And, to! by the time he opened the front door no

bottle was to be seen; and Kokua sat in a chair and started up

like one awakened out of sleep.

"I have been drinking all day and making merry," said

Keawe. "1 have been with good companions, and now I only

came back for money, and return to dnnk and carouse with

mem again."

Both his face and voice were stern as judgment, but Kokua

was loo troubled to observe.

"You do well to use your own, my husband." said she,

and her words trembled.

"Oh, I do well in all things," said Keawe. and he went

348 Robert Louis Stevenson

straight to the chest and look out money. But he looked

besides in the comer where they kept the bottle, and there

was no bottle there.

At that the chest heaved upon the floor like a sea-billow,

and the house spun about him like a wreath of smoke, for he

saw she was lost now, and there was no escape. "It is what I

feared," he thought- "It is she who has bought it."

And then he came to himself a little and rose up: but the

sweat streamed on his face as thick as the rain and as cofd as

the well-water.

"Kokua," said he, "I said to you today what ill became

me. Now I return to house with my jolly companions," and

at that he laughed a little quietly. "I will take more pleasure

in the cup if you forgive me."

She clasped his knees in a moment, she kissed his knees

with flowing tears.

"Oh." she cried. "I ask but a kind word!"

"Let us never one think hardly of the other," said Keawe,

and was gone out of the house.

Now, the money that Keawe had taken was only some of

that store of centime pieces they had laid in at their arrival. It

was very sure he had no mind to be drinking. His wife had

given her soul for him, now he must give his for hers; no

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other thought was in the world with him.

At the comer, by the old calaboose, there was the boat-

swain waiting.

"My wife has the bottle," said Keawe, "and, unless you

help me to recover it, there can be no more money and no

more liquor tonight."

"You do not mean to say you are serious about that

bottle?" cried the boatswain.

"There is the lamp," said Keawe. "Do 1 look as if I was

jesting?"

"That is so," said the boatswain. "You look as serious as

a ghost."

"Well, then," said Keawe, "here are two centimes; you

just go to my wife in the house, and offer her these for the

bottle, which (if I am not much mistaken) she will give you

instantly. Bring it to me here, and 1 will buy it back from you

for one; for that is the law with this bottle, that it still must be

THE BOTTLE IMP 349

sold for a less sum. But whatever you do. never breathe a

word to her that you have come from me."

"Mate, I wonder are you making a fool of me?" asked the

boatswain.

"It will do you no harm if I am," returned Keawe.

"That is so, mate," said the boatswain.

"And if you doubt me," added Keawe, "you can try. As

soon as you are clear of the house, wish to have your pocket

full of money, or a bottle of the best rum, or what you please.

and you will see the virtue of the thing."

"Very well. Kanaka," says the boatswain. "1 will try;

but if you are having your fun out of me, 1 will take my fun

out of you with a belaying-pin."

So the whaleman went off up the avenue; and Keawe stood

and waited. It was near the same spot where Kokua had

waited the night before; but Keawe was more resolved, and

never faltered in his purpose; only his soul was bitter with

despair.

It seemed a long time he had to wail before he heard a

voice singing in the darkness of the avenue. He knew the

voice to be the boatswain's; but it was strange how drunken it

appeared upon a sudden.

Next 'the man himself come stumbling into the light of the

lamp. He had the devil's bottle buttoned in his coat; another

bottle was in his hand; and even as he came in view he raised

it to his mouth and drank.

"You have it," said Keawe. "I see that."

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"Hands off!" cried the boatswain, jumping back. "Take a

step near me, and I'll smash your mouth. You thought you

could make a catspaw of me, did you?"

"What do you mean?" cried Keawe.

"Mean?" cried the boatswain. "This is a pretty good

^-bottle, this is; that's what I mean. How 1 got it for two

^"centimes I can't make out; but I am sure you shan't have it

for one."

"You mean you won't sell?" gasped Keawe.

"No, sir," cried the boatswain. "But I'll give you a drink

Fine rum, if you like."

|<"! tell you," said Keawe, "me man who has that bottle

to hell."

350 Robert Louis Stevenson

"I reckon I'm going anyway," returned the sailor; "and

this bottle's the best thing to go with I've struck yet. No,

sir!" he cried again, "this is my bottle now, and you can go

and fish for another."

"Can this be true?" Keawe cried. "For your own sake, I

beseech you, sell it me!"

"1 don't value any of your talk," replied the boatswain.

"You thought I was a flat, now you see I'm not; and there's

an end. If you won't have a swallow of the rum, I'll have one

myself. Here's your health, and good night to you!"

So off he went down. the avenue toward town, and there

goes the bottle out of the story.

But Keawe ran to Kokua light as the wind; and great was

their joy that night; and great, since then, has been the peace

of all their days in the Bright House.

ABOUT THE EDITORS

ISAAC AS1MOV has been called "one of America's treasures."

Born in the Soviet Union, he was brought to the United States

at the age of three (along with his family) by agents of me

American government in a successful attempt to prevent him

from working for me wrong side. He quickly established

himself as one of this country's foremost science fiction

writers and writer about everything, and although now

approaching middle age, he is going stronger than ever. He

long ago passed his age and weight in books, and with some

250 to his credit threatens to close in on his i.Q. His sequel to

The Foundation Trilogy—Foundation's Edge—was one of the

best-selling books of 1982 and 1983.

MARTIN H. GREENBERG has been called (in The Science

Fiction and Fantasy Book Review) "The King of the

Anthologists"; to which he replied—"It's good to be the

King!" He has produced more than 150 of mem, usually

in collaboration with a multitude of co-conspirators, most

frequentfy the two who have given you MAGICAL WISHES.

A Professor of Regional Analysis and Political Science at the

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University of Wisconsin-Green Bay. he is still trying So

publish his weight.

CHARLES G. WAUGH is a Professor of Psychology and

Communications at the University of Maine at Augusta who

is still trying to figure out how he got himself into all this- He

has also worked with many collaborators, since he is basically

a very friendly fellow. He has done some fifty anthologies

and single-author collections, and especially enjoys locating

i. unjustly ignored stories. He also claims that he met his wife

via computer dating—her choice was an entire fraternity or

him, and she has only minor regrets.

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